When morning light cut through the kitchen, the coffee had just reached 92 degrees Celsius. Liam Stone stared at the jumping numbers on the thermometer, like a surgeon waiting for the signal to begin surgery.
"Emotional Guide, Entry 417," he whispered to the air. "After wife works consecutive overtime, provide high-acidity coffee to stimulate dopamine secretion."
The manual lay open on the counter. On the left was a photo of Sophia laughing—he loved the fine lines at the corners of her eyes. On the right were today's entries:
Blue (Must Execute):
Good morning kiss (3 seconds, note she only slept 4 hours last night)
Ask about the case but do not press for details
Confirm Emma's soccer practice time (4 PM, need to prepare electrolyte drink)
Green (Observation Record):
Did Sophia change her hairpin? (Stress indicator)
Emma's breakfast eating speed (school stressor)
Check mailbox for letters from the Chicago Tribune
He checked each item like a bomb disposal expert inspecting wires.
"Dad!"
Emma rushed into the kitchen, her Spider-Man cape dragging on the floor. The six-year-old's eyes shone like morning stars: "I want fighting dinosaurs in my cereal!"
Liam took an ice tray from the fridge—blue pterodactyls, red T-Rexes, green diplodocuses, frozen at 1 AM last night. He knew each dinosaur's historical period and extinction reason by heart.
"Paleontology doesn't support fire-breathing," he said, placing a red ice block into the bowl. "But we could discuss the role of volcanic activity in the Cretaceous-Paleogene extinction event."
"I don't understand! I want fire-breathing ones!"
"Volcanic eruption effect requires red food coloring." Liam took a bottle from the spice rack. "Two drops, simulating a medium-scale eruption."
He knew that in seven minutes, his daughter would complain about the milk turning pink, just as he knew his wife would come downstairs exactly at 7:15. Sophia Carter's sense of time was like an atomic clock—error margin under three seconds.
7:14. Footsteps sounded.
Sophia came down already wearing her police uniform shirt, but her hair was still damp. She sniffed the air, her left eyebrow lifting—Note 203: This was the expression for "pleased but trying not to show it too obviously."
"Changed the coffee beans?"
"Guatemalan Antigua, the acidity helps with alertness." Liam turned and executed the good morning kiss protocol. Three seconds, with a one-breath pause in the middle. "Finished analyzing last night's crime scene report?"
"Dreamt of debating with bloodstain samples all night." Sophia took the coffee cup, the faint blue under her eyes like shadows on a map.
Seven minutes later, as predicted
Emma pushed away her pink milk bowl. "Daddy, the dinosaur melted!"
"Pterodactyl ice has a lower melting point due to aerodynamic structural porosity." Liam took the bowl. "Next time we'll try frozen berry spheres—better thermal mass."
Sophia watched the exchange, a smile playing at her lips. "You two sound like a science podcast."
"Scientific accuracy is important," Liam said, rinsing the bowl. Then he paused, consulting his mental notes. Item: compliment wife's appearance. She was wearing her old navy hairpin today, not a new one. But the note said to mention the hairpin…
"Your hairpin," he said. "The navy one. More professional than the pearl one for today's case briefing."
Sophia touched her hair, her expression shifting. "This is the same hairpin I wore yesterday, Liam."
0.3 seconds of processing time.
"I anticipated you'd choose the practical option over the decorative one today," Liam recovered smoothly. "Given the serious nature of your meeting."
Sophia studied him for a long moment, then shook her head. "Sometimes I wish you'd make a mistake."
"Like what?"
"Like forgetting to buy milk, or burning the toast." She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Perfection can be… unnerving."
Liam's hand stilled on the faucet handle. He ran through his response protocols before speaking. "I'll add 'occasional minor errors' to the improvement list."
"That's not—" Sophia began, then stopped when the doorbell rang.
7:38 AM. Not the mail carrier (8:30). Not Mrs. Martha from next door (she'd call first). This visitor's footsteps had been nearly silent approaching the door.
Liam moved to answer, his left hand briefly touching the small of his back—empty, just muscle memory.
Through the peephole: a woman in her late twenties, blonde hair styled in perfect waves, impeccable makeup. Beige trench coat, leather folder in hand. Smile calculated at 28-degree upturn.
"Mr. Stone? I'm Olivia Chase from the Chicago Tribune." The business card she offered was thick, expensive stock. "I'm doing a piece on community arts programs and their impact on youth crime prevention."
Liam accepted the card without glancing at it. "Interviews are by appointment at my studio."
"Actually," her smile widened but didn't reach her eyes, "I'm also following up on reader correspondence about your earlier work in Boston. Fascinating coincidence—that neighborhood later became famous for an unsolved case."
The air in the hallway seemed to chill.
Sophia appeared at the living room entrance, her police badge catching the morning light. "Can I help you?"
"Lieutenant Carter!" Olivia's demeanor shifted instantly to deferential charm. "My apologies for the intrusion. I was just admiring your husband's community work."
"The Tribune has a media agreement with CPD," Sophia said, her tone polite but edged. "Section 3C requires advance approval for contact with officers' families. Do you have that approval?"
Olivia's smile tightened. "A procedural oversight. My sincere apologies." She turned back to Liam. "Mr. Stone, if you reconsider…"
He took the proffered second card. The door closed.
In the kitchen, Emma was singing a made-up song about flying dinosaurs. But the adult world had just cracked open.
Sophia leaned against the door, closing her eyes for exactly three seconds—her stress response, Note 308.
"That journalist," she said without opening her eyes, "is trouble."
"She mentioned Boston. Said I taught there fifteen years ago."
"Did you ever live in Boston?"
"I was in Seattle until 2010. You know that." Liam turned to face her fully. "You saw my senior exhibition at the Seattle Contemporary."
Sophia opened her eyes and studied him. Five seconds. Six. Seven…
"Don't call a lawyer," she finally said, pushing off from the door to hug him. "Just… the case I've been working on has drawn media vultures. If she comes back, don't answer. Call me."
Her chin rested on his shoulder. Liam's hand came up to pat her back—Note 203: Comforting touch: 1.2 pats per second, duration 15-30 seconds.
But he didn't count this time.
Because Sophia murmured something that wasn't in any script: "Sometimes, Liam… what scares me isn't the monsters outside."
"Then what?"
She was silent so long he thought she wouldn't answer.
"I'm afraid," she whispered at last, "that one day I'll wake up and discover this perfect life is just a beautifully staged dream."
Liam's hand stilled on her back.
He wanted to say: It's not a dream.
He wanted to say: I'm real, my love for you is real, this family is real.
What he said was: "Your coffee is getting cold."
8:05 AM
After Sophia left for work and Mrs. Martha picked up Emma for school, the house fell into silence.
Liam stood before the large metal sculpture in their living room—Home, welded from 1,437 found objects: the chain from Emma's first bicycle, the backplate from Sophia's old badge, broken measuring spoons, keys from their wedding.
His fingers traced a modified bicycle gear. Laser-engraved on its inner surface, visible only at a specific angle:
"I am not him."
Beneath it, even smaller:
"But if I'm not him, who am I?"
He opened his phone, accessed a triple-encrypted folder. Password: their anniversary + Emma's birthday + the date of their first family camping trip.
Unsaved draft email:
To: Sophia Carter
Subject: Who I am
If you're reading this, I can't tell you in person. My name is Lucas Green, but I'm not a murderer. Fifteen years ago, when I entered the lab, Professor Richard was already dead. My name was written in blood on the wall. I ran because I knew no one would believe someone who can't cry real tears. Then I met you. You were the first person who didn't ask "Why are you different?" but said "Your difference is beautiful." If you ever have to choose between me and the truth, choose truth. But please believe this: loving you is the only truth I know.
He deleted the draft.
Opening the leather notebook to a fresh page, he wrote:
Date: September 15
Event: Reporter Olivia Chase visited, mentioned Boston & Lucas Green
Sophia's reaction: Protective but probing
My response: Denial, maintained cover story
Emotional analysis: Alert (78%), Confusion (15%), Something resembling guilt (7%)—needs categorization
Action items:
Deep background check on Olivia Chase (priority: high)
Review home security system logs
Purchase pearl hairpin Sophia mentioned (as explanation for "prediction error")
Analyze differences between recent copycat crimes and original case
His pen hovered. Then, at the bottom of the page in tiny script—no bullet points, no color coding, as if afraid even future-him might see—he added:
Today she said she fears this perfection is a dream.
I want to say: Dreams end, but I won't leave.
But that sounds like a line from a script.
And I can no longer tell which words are true and which I've rehearsed too often.
If one day I forget how to love you—
No, that premise is invalid.
Loving you is instinct, not performance.
Right?
Chicago PD, Major Crimes Division
Sophia Carter opened the latest case file.
Title: Third Copycat Homicide Scene Report & Potential Links to "Lucas Green Case."
The first page held a wanted poster photo. Yellowed with age, but the young man's eyes were clear—dark, empty like a starless night.
Name: Lucas Green.
Page two: The third copycat victim, an art history professor. Cause: mechanical asphyxiation. A pressed iris left at the scene.
Critical difference from the fifteen-year-old case: No flower was left at the original scene. None.
Sophia stared at the wanted photo for a long time. Then she took a Polaroid from her wallet—their wedding day. The man in the picture smiled brightly, eyes crinkled like crescent moons.
She placed the two photos side by side on her desk.
Morning light through the blinds cut them into stripes of light and shadow, like prison bars. Like the boundary of a choice.
Her phone vibrated. Mark Rosen, FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit, her academy senior.
"Sophia, about the copycat case," Mark's voice was serious, "we've developed a profile. The killer has an almost pathological fixation on the original case, but he's 'refining' details—like the flower. He's trying to surpass the original."
"You think the original killer is still alive?"
"We think the original killer may be dead," Mark paused, "but there's another possibility: Lucas Green wasn't the killer. The copycat knows this. He's using these crimes to… pay homage to the real idol."
"Any evidence?"
"Not yet. But I need your help investigating Green's possible connections. If he's alive, if he's in Chicago—"
"I'll look into it." Sophia cut him off, her voice sharper than intended.
After hanging up, she looked again at the two photographs.
One: a wanted fugitive, society's definition of a monster.
One: her husband, her chosen family.
She whispered to herself, so softly it was almost inaudible:
"Liam, if you're lying to me…"
She closed her eyes.
"…lie to me for a lifetime."
Outside the window, storm clouds gathered over Chicago. The forecast predicted thunderstorms by afternoon.
Some storms come from the sky.
Some storms come from truths we refuse to acknowledge.