Sunday, 12:08 PM
Puddles in the alley behind the art center mirrored the ashen sky. Liam stood at the mouth of the passage, rain trickling past his collar. He carried no umbrella—it would restrict his sightlines and reaction time, a survival lesson from fifteen years ago.
Deep in the alley, Kyle leaned against a rusted fire escape. Hood pulled low, hands buried in his pockets. The posture put Liam on alert: if there was a weapon in those pockets, draw time would be 0.2 seconds faster.
"You came alone?" Kyle's voice was muffled by the rain.
"As requested." Liam remained in place, six meters between them—enough to react, enough to observe. "What did you find?"
Kyle pulled a waterproof pouch from his pocket and tossed it. The bag arced through the air; Liam didn't catch it with his hands. Instead, he cushioned its fall with the top of his foot, letting it land on a dry concrete ledge.
"You don't trust me," Kyle said.
"I trust data." Liam crouched to examine the pouch. "You didn't open it, the seal's intact. But if you poisoned the exterior, contact is still a risk."
The teenager offered a bitter smile. "You're really… something."
Using his shirttail as a barrier, Liam opened the pouch. Inside: three sheets of paper. The first, a Walker Foundation donation list from 2018, one name circled in red—Raymond Jenkins. The second, a bank transfer record showing $500,000 from the foundation to Jenkins's personal account, memo: "Consulting Fee." The third, a handwritten note in frantic script:
"Jenkins agreed to destroy evidence. Original fingerprint report processed. Kept backup just in case—hidden at the usual place."
"Raymond Jenkins," Liam looked up. "Deputy Chief of Boston PD fifteen years ago, oversaw the Lucas Green case. Retired, became a private security consultant."
"I know who he is," Kyle took two steps closer. "My dad worked for him. Drove, delivered things. Said Jenkins had a locked metal box in his desk. Never let anyone touch it."
The rain intensified. Water carved tiny rivers through alley debris.
"Why are you helping me?" Liam asked.
Kyle was silent a long time. Rain drummed a dull rhythm on his hood.
"Because my stepdad was right," he finally said. "Some people are born monsters. But you're not. You just…" he searched for words, "…pretend to be normal so well you almost believe it yourself."
The words were a needle, precise, piercing some unlabeled place within Liam. He felt an unfamiliar physiological response—not pain, a more complex tension.
"Does your stepfather still hit your mother?" Liam asked.
"He's dead. Drunk driving, hit a bridge abutment." Kyle's voice was flat. "No one cried at the funeral. Mom called it relief."
Liam recalled the notebook entry on "appropriate expression of sympathy." He decided not to quote it. Instead, he asked, "What do you need?"
"Nothing." The boy turned. "Just… if you win, tell them. Tell them not everyone like us is a monster."
"Like us?"
Kyle didn't answer, just pulled his hood up and vanished into the rain. At the alley's mouth, he paused. "Those donation records were bought off the dark web. Seller says there's more—about an 'Iris List.' Price is high, but I could try hacking it."
"Don't," Liam said. "Too dangerous."
"Dangerous?" Kyle looked back, smiling for the first time—a bitter smile. "Mr. Stone, I'm sixteen. I live on the South Side, pass three gang territories to get to school. Danger is my normal."
He was gone.
Liam stood watching the rain wash the alley clean. His phone vibrated. Martha Jenkins:
*"Press conference moved to 1 PM. CNN and NBC confirmed. Also, found your left-handed man—Daniel Walker's college roommate, died 2010, drug overdose. Coincidence?"*
Not a coincidence. Liam's brain connected data points: Walker used a dead man's identity to forge Lucas Green. And Jenkins—the deputy chief on the case—took a bribe to destroy evidence.
But where was the "backup"? Where was "the usual place"?
Another vibration. Sophia this time:
"Landed in San Francisco. Eileen agreed to meet, but at her chosen location. Address sent. Emma drawing at hotel, says she misses you."
Attached, a photo: Emma at a hotel desk, crayon drawing of three stick figures—two adults holding a child's hands, background a distorted Golden Gate Bridge. Below, wobbly letters: "Daddy come soon."
Liam's finger hovered over the screen. According to his notes, he should reply: "Daddy misses you too. Nice drawing." But the words suddenly felt hollow.
He pressed the voice memo button. "Emma, Daddy saw your drawing. The Golden Gate's suspension cables should be symmetrical, but you drew them asymmetrical—that's actually more interesting. Because real engineering sometimes has to break rules for difficult terrain."
Send.
Three seconds later, Sophia replied with a laughing-crying emoji: "She'll take that literally. Now she's on Wikipedia looking up 'suspension bridge design principles.'"
Liam felt the corner of his mouth move. Not a planned smile. Something spontaneous.
12:47 PM, Law Office Conference Room
Martha Jenkins wore a deep crimson suit, a general on the battlefield. Cameras were already set up; reporters from five outlets filled the front rows.
"Remember," Jenkins whispered in Liam's ear, "you're not defending. You're presenting. Presenting a life destroyed and rebuilt. Media loves redemption stories, hates complex conspiracies."
"But the truth is a complex conspiracy," Liam said.
"Truth gives lawyers headaches, confuses journalists, makes audiences change channels." Jenkins adjusted his tie. "Today, we just need them to remember one thing: you're Liam Stone, community artist, good husband, good father. Everything else is noise."
The door opened. An assistant signaled time.
The moment Liam entered the room, camera flashes erupted like a seizure. White afterimages burned on his retinas—constellations, or blood spatter on a lab wall.
He sat at the long table, eleven microphones before him. Jenkins stood at his side.
"Everyone," her voice cut through the noise, "my client Mr. Liam Stone will make a brief statement, then take a few questions. Please remain orderly."
The room quieted. Liam scanned the lenses, the expectant faces. He searched for what Kyle had described—the look of someone seeing a monster.
Found it. A bespectacled reporter in the back row, mouth downturned, fingers flying over a tablet. Writing live coverage, headline likely: "Emotionally Impaired Man Performs Normality—Will the Audience Buy It?"
Liam decided to address him first.
"First," his voice carried through the microphones, "I want to thank my wife, Lieutenant Sophia Carter. She's not here today because she's in San Francisco retrieving crucial evidence for this case. She believes in truth, even when truth may hurt her."
The bespectacled reporter stopped typing.
"Second," Liam continued, "regarding my emotional recognition disorder. Yes, I cannot naturally feel or express emotion. I rely on notes to learn how to be a husband, a father, a community member. Some call that deception. I call it effort."
He opened his phone, projected a scan onto the screen. A page from his notebook:
"Emma fever 103°F. Should display concern. Actual feeling: data indicates pediatric fever common, requires temperature monitoring not emotional response. Execute: hourly measurements, log data, prepare electrolyte solution."
"Addendum: Emma says 'Daddy I'm scared.' Standard response 'Don't be scared Daddy's here.' But recognize 'fear' is subjective, cannot fully comprehend. Execute: hold her hand, say 'Temperature curve indicates drop in four hours. I will keep calculating the time.'"
"Result: She laughed. Said 'Daddy you're weird.' Satisfaction level: uncertain."
Reporters scribbled quietly. The flashing stopped.
"This is my reality," Liam said. "Not perfect husband, not cold-blooded killer. A person trying to learn. Harrison Walker exploited that—he needed a scapegoat who couldn't cry. He found me."
Jenkins interjected smoothly, "Questions now."
The bespectacled reporter raised his hand first. "Mr. Stone, Walker presented photo evidence today showing Lucas Green at the crime scene. How do you explain that?"
"The person in the photo is left-handed." Liam enlarged the image. "Watch worn on left wrist, face turned inward—a left-hander's habit. All my historical records show I'm right-handed. Mr. Walker forged evidence but overlooked details."
"How do you prove you're right-handed?"
Liam extended his right hand, showing the callus at the base of his thumb. "Fifteen years of metal welding. Left hand has none." He paused. "If forensic verification is needed, I'll comply."
Another reporter: "Olivia Chase's book releases today. She claims you enjoy the game of dual identities. Your response?"
Liam recalled the notebook entry on "handling defamation": remain calm, state facts, show no emotion.
He chose a different approach.
"Ms. Chase interviewed me three years ago," he said. "She asked: 'What does art mean to you?' I answered: 'Art is the process of reassembling broken things.' She said: 'What a poetic answer. May I quote that in my column?'"
He played a recording—a backup from that interview three years prior. Olivia's voice:
"So, Mr. Stone, if your life were ever shattered, would you reassemble it through art too?"
His reply: "My life was shattered once. I am reassembling it."
The recording ended. Dead silence in the room.
"She was gathering material even then," Liam said. "Not for truth. For a story. And I became a character in her story."
Jenkins touched his arm—time to wrap up.
The final question came from a female reporter, her voice gentle. "Mr. Stone, when your wife learned everything, what was her first reaction?"
The question wasn't rehearsed. Liam's mind went briefly blank. Then he remembered that night in the hospital corridor, Sophia taking his hand, saying: "Tell me, who did I marry?"
"She asked me," Liam's voice wavered for the first time, "if I remembered our wedding vows. I said I remembered every word. Then she said…" He paused, controlled his breath. "…she said: 'Then keep them. Whatever your name is.'"
The reporter nodded, asked nothing more.
The conference ended. As Liam moved toward the green room, Jenkins murmured, "Well handled. Especially the ending—emotionally authentic without sentimentality."
"It happened," Liam said.
"I know," Jenkins looked at him. "That's why it worked."
1:33 PM, San Francisco
Sophia left Emma with the hotel's childcare—arranged by the FBI, concealed-carry permitted. Then she followed Eileen's directions to an aging apartment building on the edge of Chinatown.
The stairwell smelled of mildew and frying oil. Fourth floor, unit 402. Three locks on the door.
The door opened a crack, security chain still engaged. An eye assessed her. "Ms. Carter?"
"Yes. Eileen?"
The door opened. A woman around sixty, Chinese, hair gray, eyes wary as a cornered animal. Behind her stood a man, likely her husband, arms crossed, muscles taut.
"Come in. Quick."
The apartment was small but unnervingly tidy. A home altar smoldered in the living room. On the coffee table lay a yellow envelope, already opened.
"My brother left this," Eileen said in heavily accented English. "Said if he died 'accidentally,' give it to someone trustworthy. I waited three years."
Sophia sat without touching the envelope. "Why give it to me now?"
"Because of the man on TV," the husband spoke, voice gravelly. "The man who cannot cry. Michael said: the real killer would cry. A man who cannot cry… might be innocent."
Sophia's throat tightened. She carefully extracted the contents.
First: a complete lab duty roster showing that on March 14, 2007, Michael Chen and another assistant were both on duty. The police report listed only Michael.
Second: a printout of security system logs showing three entry records that night: Professor Richard, Michael Chen, and a third person using a universal access card—three minutes before the professor's death.
Third: a handwritten memo in Michael's script:
"Mr. Walker came again today. Gave professor ultimatum: stop investigation or be exposed. Professor refused. Walker said 'there will be consequences.' Should I report? But Walker sponsors my visa. Without him, I get deported."
Finally, a small sealed bag—strands of hair, evidence-tagged, label reading: "Extracted from professor's fingernails. Not his, not Michael's, not student samples. Retained for contingency."
Sophia looked up. "Why didn't your brother come forward sooner?"
"He tried," Eileen's eyes reddened. "Went to the police, a Deputy Chief named Jenkins. Next day, immigration officers visited. Said his visa had issues. Walker 'fixed' it. After that, he never spoke of it again."
Jenkins. That name again.
"How did your brother die?" Sophia asked.
"Pancreatic cancer. Two months from diagnosis to death." The husband's voice was low. "But his checkup before was clean. We suspected… no proof."
Sophia returned everything to the envelope. Her hands trembled.
"I need to take these. The FBI can offer protection—"
"No protection," Eileen shook her head. "We want one thing: my brother's name in the truth. Let people know he tried to do right."
Sophia promised, "He'll be named a hero."
As she left, Eileen pressed a charm into her hand. "For your husband. A man who cannot cry also needs blessings."
2:17 PM, Chicago
Liam was analyzing the donation records in Jenkins's office when a news alert flashed:
"Breaking: Chaos at Olivia Chase Book Launch, Protesters Clash with Supporters"
The video showed Olivia on a bookstore stage, holding a hardcover of The Perfect Monster. Below, two factions faced off: one side with signs reading "Free Liam Stone," the other with "Emotional Disorder Is Not an Excuse."
A young woman wept into a camera: "My brother has emotional recognition disorder! He's not a monster!"
A middle-aged man shouted: "A man who cannot cry has no conscience!"
On stage, Olivia smiled like a Roman aristocrat watching gladiators.
Liam closed the video. His phone rang. Unknown number.
Olivia's voice, background noise chaotic: "Watching the livestream, Mr. Stone? Your story is dividing the world."
"What do you want?" Liam asked calmly.
"The complete story," her voice trembled with excitement. "Walker gave me half, you gave me half. But the best stories live in the middle—the gray zone where good people do bad things, bad people do good, truth depends on perspective."
"I'm not your story material."
"Oh, but you are," Olivia laughed. "You already are. After today, no matter what the courts decide, you'll become a symbol. Representative of the emotionally impaired, victim of judicial failure, or… embodiment of the perfect deception. Depends on who tells the story."
Liam looked out at Chicago. The rain had stopped, but the sky remained heavy.
"You know," he said, "fifteen years ago when I ran, my greatest fear wasn't being caught. It was that no one would listen to my explanation. Now I have the chance to explain, and I find some people don't want to listen—they only want stories that fit their worldview."
Olivia was silent a few seconds. Then: "Because truth is often boring. But stories… stories can change the world."
"What will your book change?"
"Start conversations," her voice turned serious. "About whether emotional disorders should be judicial considerations. About how wrongful convictions happen. About whether someone can be both monster and victim."
The line went dead.
Liam stood at the window a long time. Then he opened his notebook to a fresh page.
This time he didn't write entries. He drew a simple diagram: three overlapping circles. One labeled "Liam," one "Lucas." In the intersecting center, he wrote:
"The real me lives here. Not complete. But true enough."
His phone vibrated. Sophia:
"Evidence secured. Jenkins is the traitor. Michael Chen retained hair DNA. Flying back tomorrow. Emma drew a second picture—this time four people, including an unborn brother or sister. She's planning futures now."
Liam stared at the last sentence. Unborn…
He remembered Sophia feeling unwell last month, remembered her not drinking, remembered the pregnancy test hidden in the bathroom cabinet. He'd noted it then, assumed other reasons.
Now data reconfigured: missed period + mood swings + pregnancy test purchase + this message = 87% probability of pregnancy.
What should his reaction be?
No notebook entry for this.
But he felt that unfamiliar physiological response again—accelerated heartbeat, damp palms, shallow breath. Symptoms consistent with medical definitions of "excitement" or "anxiety." Which was it?
He decided not to analyze.
He replied:
"Tell Emma a family of four needs a bigger house. I can design it."
Sophia's reply came instantly:
"You know? I wanted to tell you in person."
"Noticed the data. Only now understood the meaning."
"Your reaction?"
Liam thought a long time. Then he typed:
"Reaction one: physiological indicators show excitement. Reaction two: began calculating nursery dimensions. Reaction three: worried if the world is safe enough for new life. Reaction four: decided regardless, we will protect him/her. This is my unscripted answer."
Sophia sent a crying emoji. Then:
"That's enough. That's love, Liam. You don't need to name it. You're already doing it."
Outside, the cloud layer fractured. Sunlight fell in a slant, illuminating a slice of the city.
Liam stood in the light, feeling warmth on his skin.
He might never feel the world as others do.
But perhaps he could find his own way to love it.