Wednesday morning, and the Oak Ridge community was dusted with an unexpected snowfall. Liam stood by the kitchen window, watching the flakes settle on the sunflower patch—the one Sophia had insisted on planting last spring, saying the yellow reminded her of California sunshine.
"Dad, Mrs. Martha says school's closed today!" Emma burst into the kitchen, still in her Spider-Man pajamas, waving her talking dinosaur plushie.
"Ninety-eight percent probability," Liam said, glancing outside. "The forecast accuracy rate this season—"
"Liam," Sophia came down the stairs in her robe, her hair sleep-tousled, "sometimes you just need to say, 'Great, we can build a snowman.'"
Liam considered this, then nodded. "Great. We can build an aerodynamically efficient snowman. Minimize wind resistance."
Sophia rolled her eyes, but a smile played on her lips. She walked to the coffee maker and naturally accepted the mug Liam handed her—Guatemalan Antigua, medium roast, one and a half sugars, her recent preference. He never got these details wrong.
The doorbell rang at ten AM. An inconvenient time.
Liam was on the living room floor with Emma, assembling a Lego dinosaur skeleton—Tyrannosaurus Rex, 1,273 pieces, sorted into neat, color-coded piles. His hand hesitated for 0.3 seconds before reaching for the doorbell. Not the mail carrier, not Mrs. Martha, nor any of the familiar neighborhood rhythms.
Through the peephole, he saw a woman.
Short blonde hair, around forty, wearing a well-tailored khaki trench coat, holding an old-fashioned leather notebook. Her stance reminded Liam of the seasoned detectives from Sophia's precinct—weight slightly back, ready for anything. But her smile was overly bright, like butter spread too thick.
"Mr. Stone? I'm Olivia Chase, with the Chicago Tribune." Her voice came through the door, laced with practiced warmth. "Sorry for the intrusion. I'm working on a feature about your community's youth art program."
Liam's mind began to whir. Logical contradiction one: the Tribune didn't usually send senior reporters (that coat spoke of seniority) for local feel-good stories. Contradiction two: no prior appointment. Contradiction three: her eyes scanned the porch as she spoke, assessing.
He opened the door just enough—polite distance, not inviting.
"Ms. Chase, interviews require an appointment." His voice was steady, like measured water in a beaker.
Olivia's smile widened, revealing precisely eight teeth—a calculated number. "Of course. I was just in the area and thought I'd try my luck." She produced a business card from her bag. "Your work helping troubled teens is so valuable, especially now. Particularly…" she paused, her gaze drifting past him into the house, "given your own background."
Emma peeked out from the living room, clutching the T-Rex skull piece. "Dad, which one's the humerus?"
Olivia's eyes lit up. "What a sweet child. Is this…"
"My daughter." Liam shifted, blocking her view. "If you'd like to schedule an interview, please contact the community arts center. Have a nice day."
He moved to close the door, but Olivia's hand came to rest on the frame—an unmistakable gesture.
"Actually," her voice lowered, "I'm working on a series about cold cases in the Chicago area. You might have heard of the unsolved murder of a university professor in Boston? Fifteen years ago?"
A soft clink sounded from the kitchen—a cup being set down. Sophia appeared, hair now brushed, in loungewear, but with that look in her eyes Liam recognized: Detective Mode.
"Can we help you?" She moved to Liam's side, naturally linking her arm with his. A move Liam had noted: #87, public display of unity to present a united front. But today, he noticed the muscles in her arm were tighter than usual.
Olivia instantly adopted an apologetic expression. "Detective Carter! My apologies. Just some background checks. You see, that case had interesting details—like unique metal shavings left at the scene. The victim was a sculpture professor."
The air grew still, save for the faint hiss of the radiator.
"Metal shavings?" Sophia asked, her tone neutral.
"Yes, fascinating, right?" Olivia flipped open her notebook. "According to the old evidence report, they contained a rare alloy composite, often used in… ah, artistic welding."
Liam felt Sophia's fingers tense slightly. His mind retrieved Note #631: When facing a potential threat, remain calm, collect information, do not volunteer.
"Sounds like a detective novel," he said evenly. "But I'm afraid we can't help. We're building a snowman."
He moved to close the door again, more decisively.
Olivia took a step back, smile intact. "Of course. But…" She slipped a photograph from her notebook into Liam's hand. "Perhaps you'll recognize this. Found it in some old MIT archives."
The door shut.
Liam looked down at the photo. Black and white, slightly grainy, a young man in profile in a sculpture studio. A welding torch in his hand, a half-finished humanoid metal form before him. A date in the corner: March 2007.
His face.
Or rather, Lucas Green's face.
"Who was that?" Sophia's voice was soft.
"A reporter." Liam turned the photo over. "One with an interest in old cases."
Emma ran over, Lego pieces in hand. "Dad, are we building the snowman?"
"Yes." Liam pocketed the photo, his voice normal again. "But first, we need to calculate the optimal snow density and cohesion. Go put on your snow boots. The yellow ones."
Emma cheered and ran off. Sophia remained, watching her husband.
"Liam."
"Yes?"
"That photo…"
"A coincidence." He turned toward the kitchen to prepare the post-snowman hot chocolate—standard procedure. "Statistically, doppelgängers aren't that rare."
He felt Sophia's gaze on his back, a physical weight. Three, five, seven seconds.
"Okay," she finally said, sounding tired. "I'll help Emma get dressed. But Liam…"
He looked back.
"If there's something… if you need to tell me something… now would be the time."
His mind offered a suite of responses: denial, deflection, logical explanation. He chose the simplest. "I know."
Sophia nodded and left. Liam listened to her footsteps ascend the stairs, then pulled the photo from his pocket, examining it under the kitchen light.
Not the original. A reprint of a copy, slight pixel distortion at the edges. The studio details in the background… He squinted. The class schedule on the wall, Spring 2007. But according to his memory—Lucas Green's memory—that studio was under renovation that semester. The schedule shouldn't have been there.
A forgery. Careful, but flawed.
He slipped the photo into his wallet's inner compartment, then opened the fridge for the milk. Movements steady, breath even, heart rate seventy-two—perfectly normal.
Outside, the snow fell heavier. Olivia Chase's car was still parked across the street. He could see a faint red glow inside—maybe a cigarette, maybe a phone.
His own phone vibrated. Unknown number, local.
He answered, silent.
"Lucas." A man's voice, low, with a familiar rasp. "She found you, didn't she?"
Liam's grip tightened. That voice… unheard for fifteen years, yet every syllable etched in memory.
"You have the wrong number," he said calmly.
"Don't hang up." The man's voice quickened. "Listen, Olivia isn't just a reporter. She's someone I… knew. She doesn't have the whole story, but she's digging too deep. You need to be careful."
"I don't know you."
"You do." A sigh. "You always have. I'll handle her. But until then, keep her away from your family. Especially Sophia."
The line went dead.
Liam stood in the middle of the kitchen, milk carton in hand. The snow outside wrapped the world in a blurry white. He could hear Emma's laughter and Sophia's gentle murmurs from upstairs.
Everything was perfect. This home, this morning, this milk that needed heating to precisely sixty-five degrees Celsius to preserve the cocoa flavor.
But the forged photo was in his wallet. That man's voice in his ear. That reporter's car waiting in the snow.
He opened his notebook to a fresh page and wrote:
"Date: Dec 14.
Event: Reporter Olivia Chase visited. Presented forged 2007 photo.
Potential Threat Level: Medium (requires assessment).
Response: Enhance home security protocols. Investigate Olivia Chase's background. Maintain routine to avoid suspicion."
He paused.
Then, below, in smaller script, unnumbered, uncategorized, he added:
"Sophia said 'now would be the time' today.
I don't know what 'time' she meant.
But I know, if it's time for the truth,
it might mean the end of all this.
And I'm not ready for it to end.
Is that selfish?
Or is it just the instinct to survive?"
Outside, Olivia Chase's car finally started, pulling slowly away from the curb, its tire tracks fading into the fresh snow.
Liam closed the notebook and began heating the milk. He turned off the heat as the thermometer hit sixty-four degrees.
Perfect.
Or as close to it as possible.