Sunday, 7:15 AM
Three newspapers lay on the porch. The Chicago Tribune front page featured Olivia's column preview, the headline occupying a third of the space:
"Emotional Disorder or Antisocial Personality? Experts Analyze the 'Perfect Husband's' Dual Brain"
Beside it, a photo of Liam from art class, digitally altered—his eyes enlarged, contrast adjusted to appear eerily hollow.
The Chicago Sun-Times was more direct:
"Community Art Mentor's Dark Past: Do We Really Know Our Neighbors?"
Only the New York Times was relatively balanced, but buried on page three:
"Gala Debacle Exposes Judicial Gaps, Fifteen-Year Wrongful Conviction Case Set for Review"
As Sophia tossed the papers into recycling, her phone rang. Internal Affairs.
"Lieutenant Carter, IA's Thompson," the voice was formally cold. "You're required to report to headquarters at 10 AM today for internal review regarding your husband's case. Bring all relevant records and personal devices."
"I'm on leave."
"Leave revoked. Formal order." The line went dead.
Sophia stared at her phone, then called Mark. "Internal Affairs wants me."
"Expected," Mark said. "Walker's lawyers filed a complaint with the department: 'improper investigation involvement' and 'conflict of interest.' The chief is under pressure."
"So I'm suspended?"
"Temporary reassignment. Until the case resolves." Mark sighed. "Listen, the San Francisco trip stands. I'll handle IA, buy you forty-eight hours."
"If I don't report?"
"Then actual suspension, maybe worse." Mark paused. "Sophia, the system is protecting itself. The Walker Foundation donated so much, implicated so many… they need a scapegoat to shift focus. You're the perfect target—a detective entangled emotionally."
Sophia looked into the kitchen. Liam was making Emma breakfast, dinosaur-shaped eggs. Emma asked, "Dad, will we really see the Golden Gate Bridge?"
"Yes," Liam answered. "But first we study its engineering. Do you know why it's orange?"
"Because it's pretty?"
"Because International Orange is most visible in fog. Safety before beauty."
Sophia hung up, walked in. She picked up Emma, hugging her tightly.
"Mommy?" Emma whispered. "You're crying?"
"Happy tears," Sophia wiped her face. "Because we're going on an adventure. Like in Daddy's dinosaur book—some adventures are scary, but not going is scarier."
Liam watched them. His expression was calm, but Sophia saw the subtle change—his jaw muscle tightened slightly, his tell for controlling emotion.
"Flight's at 2 PM," she said. "You'll take us to the airport?"
"Yes," Liam turned back to the eggs. "Remember Emma's dinosaur picture book. For the plane."
"Liam," Sophia walked to him. "Promise me one thing."
"What?"
"Don't watch the news. Don't read comments. Don't try to analyze the hateful data." She took his hand. "Jenkins will handle the legal part. You just need to… be yourself. The man who measures sugar for my coffee to the gram."
Liam was silent a few seconds. Then he said, "Note 512: When wife gives irrational advice, execute first, analyze later."
"That's not in your notes."
"Just added it." The corner of his mouth lifted—a real, small smile. "See? I'm learning."
9:17 AM, Law Offices
Martha Jenkins, sixty-two, was one of Chicago's most expensive criminal defense attorneys, and an old friend of Sophia's father. Her office occupied the top floor of Michigan Avenue, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the lake.
"First," she slid a document across the desk, "this is the most favorable narrative framework: You are not Lucas Green; you are Liam Stone. Lucas is a phantom Walker invented, a scapegoat persona."
Liam looked at the document. "But Lucas did exist. I have his memories."
"Memories can be implanted," Jenkins removed her reading glasses. "Walker studied your psychological profile, carefully constructed 'Lucas's' backstory. You believe you're that person because with your condition, you're suggestible."
"That isn't true."
"The law cares less about truth than about provable narratives." Jenkins leaned forward. "Son, I've handled wrongful convictions for thirty years. Every case has two versions: the truth, and the story that wins in court. We need the latter."
Liam's brain processed the concept: actively accepting one fabricated narrative to disprove another. Logically contradictory, strategically effective.
"The risk?" he asked.
"Risk is if Walker produces hard evidence—say, the actual body of Lucas Green—we're finished," Jenkins said. "But my intel suggests Lucas Green never existed. Walker picked a template from missing persons databases fifteen years ago, forged all records."
Liam remembered the student ID, transcripts, homework. So real, so detailed.
"If I accept this narrative," he said, "what were the past fifteen years of my life?"
"A victim's reconstruction after systemic destruction," Jenkins's voice softened. "Listen, I know this is hard. But understand: this battle isn't in labs or archives; it's in public perception. Olivia Chase's book goes on sale this afternoon, first printing 100,000 copies. Walker's press conference starts in an hour. They're writing your story. If you don't grab the pen, you remain the villain forever."
Liam looked out the window. Sailboats dotted the lake, tiny as toys.
"What do I need to do?" he asked.
"Your own press conference, here, at 3 PM today," Jenkins handed him a schedule. "I've invited mainstream outlets, they're relatively fair. You do one thing: show your life as Liam Stone. Community art class photos, family pictures, Emma's drawings. Don't explain, don't refute, just let people see… you're a person, not a monster."
"Is that enough?"
"No. But it's a start." Jenkins stood. "Also, Sophia cannot attend. Right now, she's the 'misguided wife'—that helps you."
Liam's fingers tightened. His notes held no protocol for this—being told to distance himself from his wife for public sympathy.
"I don't agree," he said.
"This isn't a request," Jenkins's voice hardened. "If you want to win, this is the cost. Media loves complex narratives: innocent husband, deceived wife, fractured family. If you show unity, they lose interest."
Liam stood. His movements were slow, as if his joints had rusted.
"Ms. Jenkins," he said politely, "thank you for your time. But I need to discuss this with my wife."
"She has no choice. Internal Affairs is reviewing her; her career depends on this case's outcome." Jenkins stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Son, I knew Sophia's father. He was a good judge, a better man. He'd want you to protect his daughter, even if it means keeping her away from you temporarily."
Liam looked into the older lawyer's eyes. She was lying—not entirely, but partially. She was testing his loyalty.
"You just called Sophia 'the misguided wife,'" he said calmly. "But she was the first person I told the truth. Before confessing to the world, I confessed to her. So if she was misguided, I misled her. We should face the consequences together."
Jenkins studied him a long moment. Then she smiled, a real smile.
"Good," she said. "Sophia said you learn fast. Now I believe it." She returned to her desk, pulled out another file. "The real plan: you appear together. Husband and wife against the world. Riskier, but if it works, doubly effective."
"Why test me?"
"Because if you'd agreed to abandon Sophia to save yourself, I'd have declined this case," Jenkins's smile vanished. "I don't represent betrayers. Not even for victory."
11:03 AM, Airport
In O'Hare's departure hall, Emma pointed at a TV screen. "Mommy, that's Daddy!"
The airport news channel showed a clip from Walker's press conference. Harrison Walker sat in a wheelchair—a new prop. His lawyer claimed his health had "deteriorated" in custody.
"…I admit I made mistakes," Walker told the camera, tears flowing, performance impeccable. "I loved my son too much; he wanted to be a great artist, I helped him create this story. But Lucas Green was real. I have evidence…"
Sophia covered Emma's eyes. "Don't watch, sweetheart."
But Liam was watching. He stood behind them, a silent fortress.
On screen, Walker's lawyer displayed a photo—two young men in a lab. One was Daniel Walker; the other…
"Is that you?" Sophia whispered.
"No," Liam said. "But there's a seventy percent resemblance. Probably Daniel's friend, with makeup and camera angles."
The lawyer continued, "This photo was taken March 14, 2007, at 9:30 PM. Lab security timestamps confirm. And this man—" he pointed at the Liam lookalike, "—is Lucas Green."
Camera flashes erupted.
Sophia felt dizzy. Even knowing it was fake, the image was powerfully persuasive.
Liam was eerily calm. He took out his phone, began typing.
"What are you doing?" Sophia asked.
"Messaging Mark," Liam said. "The man in the photo wears his watch on his left wrist, but the face is turned inward—a left-hander's placement. In all my historical photos and videos, I use my right hand for fine motor tasks. Walker forgot that detail."
Sophia looked at him. Amid the airport chaos, under the giant screen of lies, her husband worked like a precision instrument, calmly unscrewing false components.
"Boarding starts," she said.
Liam put away his phone, crouched to hug Emma. "Remember to bring me Golden Gate Bridge photos. Sunset, best light angle."
"Daddy, will you come see us?"
"Soon," Liam kissed her forehead. "After Daddy finishes this fight."
He stood, facing Sophia. Boarding calls echoed, people flowed, the world turned.
"San Francisco address and contacts are in the envelope," Liam handed her a manila packet. "Michael Chen's sister is Eileen. Her husband's a veteran, highly cautious. Don't say you're police. Say… you're the wife of one of Professor Green's students."
Sophia took the envelope, her fingers brushing his. "You'll be okay?"
"I'll learn," Liam said. "Learn how to be myself without you here."
It wasn't romantic, but it felt truer than any romance.
Sophia hugged him, tightly, as if to imprint the embrace into memory. Then she took Emma's hand and turned toward security.
She didn't look back. Because if she did, she might not leave.
Liam stood still, watching them dissolve into the crowd. His phone vibrated. Martha Jenkins:
"Press conference moved to 2 PM. Walker just presented 'smoking gun.' We need to counter. Can you come?"
He replied:
*"Send address. Also, need to find a man who wears his watch on his left wrist—left-handed, similar age, possibly in Boston around 2007. Possible?"*
Jenkins replied swiftly:
"Already searching. You learn faster than I thought."
Liam walked out of the airport. Chicago's sky was grey, threatening rain.
He remembered Emma's question: Why did dinosaurs go extinct?
Scientists' answer: asteroid impact, climate change, ecosystem collapse.
But Liam now had another answer: Sometimes a species disappears because the world refuses to accept them as they truly are.
He didn't want to be a dinosaur.
He hailed a cab, gave the law office address.
His phone vibrated again. Unknown number, but the message made him pause:
"Mr. Stone, it's Kyle. Didn't use all the money you gave me. Found stuff online, secret donation lists for Walker Foundation. One name you'll recognize. Meet at the usual place?"
Liam stared at the screen. Kyle, the kid who'd said "your eyes go empty when you're angry."
He replied:
"When and where?"
The reply came instantly:
"Now. Alley behind the art center. Come alone."
Warning signals lit up in Liam's mind: rushed, secret location, demand for solitude.
But another data point: Kyle knew his studio passcode. If he meant harm, he'd had chances.
He told the cab driver to change destinations.
Rain began to fall. Fine drops hit the window like countless tiny timers, starting their countdown.