The snowman was completed by two in the afternoon, standing in the center of the backyard, wearing Emma's orange woolen hat, its carrot nose tilted slightly to the left—Emma insisted it gave it "more personality." Liam had measured the snowball diameters (top: 42 cm, bottom: 68 cm) and calculated the center of gravity, confirming it wouldn't topple in winds under level six.
"Dad, it needs a name!" Emma's cheeks were flushed red from the cold, her mittens caked with snow.
"According to snowman naming traditions, seventy-three percent are named 'Frosty' or 'Mr. Snowball.'" Liam used a twig to draw a smiling mouth on the snowman—corners upturned fifteen degrees, conforming to the standard for happy expressions in children's drawings.
"Too boring!" Emma stamped her foot. "I'm gonna call it… 'Rocket T-Rex Snowman'!"
Sophia leaned out the kitchen window, camera in hand. "Because it fires snowball rockets?"
"Yes! And its teeth are made of ice!" Emma began carving teeth into the snowman with an ice pick (actually Liam's small ice cream scoop).
Liam watched his daughter's focused profile, but his mind was running another program in the background: calculating Olivia Chase's motives, analyzing the source of that mysterious call, assessing the level of suspicion in Sophia's silence. Data fell like snowflakes in his consciousness; he needed to arrange them into meaningful patterns.
"You're distracted." Sophia had appeared beside him, handing him a mug of hot tea.
"I'm calculating the snowman's melt rate." Liam took the mug. Fifty-eight degrees—his preferred drinking temperature. "Based on current temperature and sun exposure angle, it will lose structural integrity in forty-six hours."
Sophia didn't smile. She looked at her husband, her eyes holding a complex emotion, like a sky heavy with snow clouds. "That reporter, Olivia. The case she mentioned… I actually know about it."
Liam's breathing pattern didn't change, but his fingers lingered on the mug for 0.2 seconds longer. "Oh?"
"Fifteen years ago, Boston. Professor Richard Green, head of the sculpture department. Found in his lab, mechanical asphyxiation." Sophia's voice was calm, like she was reciting a case file. "Signs of a struggle, but nothing valuable taken. Words were written on the wall… in the victim's blood."
"What did they say?" Liam asked. He knew the answer, but he needed to hear her say it.
"'Lucas'." Sophia turned to look at him. "That was the name of the student they wanted. Lucas Green. Same surname as the professor, but no relation. Just coincidence."
Emma ran over and hugged Sophia's leg. "Mom, are you telling a police story?"
"Sort of." Sophia crouched down to adjust Emma's scarf. "A very old case."
"Did they catch the bad guy?"
"Not yet." Sophia said softly. "But sometimes, the story isn't over just because the bad guy isn't caught."
Liam watched his wife and daughter, feeling an unfamiliar physiological response—a slight tightness in his chest, similar to anxiety, but not quite. His notes categorized this as "Emotional Response Pending Analysis - #7." Frequency: extremely low.
"That student," he began, his voice steadier than expected, "why was he suspected?"
"Emotional recognition disorder." Sophia stood up, brushing snow off her hands. "The interrogation records showed he 'lacked appropriate emotional response' to the professor's death. Plus, he was the last person to see the professor, his fingerprints were in the lab, and…" she paused, "…some details I only noticed recently."
"What details?"
Sophia didn't answer immediately. She went back inside and returned a few minutes later with her police tablet. Snowflakes landed on the screen and melted instantly.
"I reopened this case two weeks ago." She pulled up a scanned file. "Not because of that reporter. Because of the recent copycat murders in Chicago. There are some similarities."
Liam looked at the screen. It was a photo from the third copycat killing. The victim was an art history professor. A pressed iris flower was left at the scene.
"The original scene didn't have a flower," he said.
"Right." Sophia zoomed in on the photo. "But look at how the stem was cut—top-left to bottom-right, a precise forty-five-degree angle. That's the cutting habit of a left-handed person."
"And Lucas Green was right-handed."
Sophia looked up at him, her gaze sharp. "How do you know that?"
Liam's mind raced. A plausible answer: "It was in the case reports. I remember reading it."
"That detail wasn't in the reports." Sophia's voice was quiet. "The police files never explicitly stated the suspect's handedness."
Silence. Snow fell in the air between them, so quiet they could hear the faint whisper of flakes touching the ground.
"I guessed." Liam finally said. "Statistically, left-handers are only ten percent of the population. If the copycat is left-handed, the original killer was likely right-handed."
Sophia stared at him for a long time, then slowly nodded. "That's logical." She shut off the tablet. "It's just… this case unsettles me. The copycat is refining details, like he's pursuing some kind of 'perfection.' And the evidence that convicted the suspect in the original case… looking back now, some of it seems too… neat."
"Neat?"
"Like it was carefully arranged." Sophia hugged the tablet to her chest. "Perfect fingerprints, perfect motive, perfect psychological profile. Real cases are rarely that clean."
Emma tugged on Liam's sleeve. "Dad, the snowman is hungry! We need to find it some food!"
Crisis temporarily averted. Liam nodded at his daughter. "A reasonable need. We can use raisins for eyes; it already has a carrot nose. What else?"
"Chocolate buttons! For its armor!"
"Chocolate becomes brittle at low temperatures; insufficient structural strength."
"Then just for decoration!"
Sophia watched father and daughter debate the snowman's "wardrobe," the seriousness on her face gradually melting. She walked to Liam's side and said softly, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't talk about work during Emma's time."
"Your work is part of you." Liam said. "And your part is part of my part."
It was a convoluted thing to say, but Sophia understood. She smiled. It was the expression Liam's notes classified as "S Smile - Genuine - No. 29"—fine wrinkles at the corners of the eyes, left corner of the mouth approximately one millimeter higher than the right.
"You know," she said, "sometimes the sweet things you say sound like poetry generated by a computer program."
"Is that a compliment?"
"Yes." She kissed his cheek. "Come on, let's find chocolate buttons for Rocket T-Rex Snowman."
At four PM, Mrs. Martha arrived with her famous apple pie. Sixty-three, lived alone, gray hair pulled into a tight bun, smile like an over-baked pie crust—a little cracked, but warm.
"I saw your snowman!" She placed the pie box on the kitchen counter. "Emma, your idea is wonderful!"
Emma puffed out her chest proudly. "It has ice teeth!"
"And it's theoretically capable of launching snowball rockets," Liam added. "Feasible if we increase snowball density to over 0.6 grams per cubic centimeter."
Mrs. Martha laughed and patted his arm. "Still so fond of your data, dear."
Sophia made tea. The four of them sat at the kitchen table. Outside the window, the snowman stood quietly, its orange hat like a small flame against the gray-white backdrop. This scene was categorized in Liam's notes as "Ideal Family Moment - No. 14," requiring execution of the following program: participate actively in conversation, smile appropriately, pass napkins at the correct time.
But today, he executed it with some difficulty. Part of his mind was still processing the morning's information: Olivia's forged photo, the mysterious call, Sophia's deep dive into the case.
"Speaking of which," Mrs. Martha took a bite of pie, feigning casualness, "a blonde woman was wandering around the neighborhood this morning, taking photos. She knocked on my door, asked some questions about the community art classes."
Liam's fork paused mid-air. "What kind of questions?"
"Oh, just general curiosity. How many kids participate, how effective it is, what kind of teacher you are." Mrs. Martha sipped her tea. "But I told her Liam is our community's treasure. Those kids, especially Kyle Miller—remember him? The boy who was always in trouble—he's working at the auto shop now, got 'Employee of the Month' last month. His mother says it's thanks to you."
Sophia smiled. "Liam does have that… ability to change people."
"But that reporter," Mrs. Martha lowered her voice, as if sharing a secret, "she asked a strange question. She asked if I'd noticed you had any 'particular habits.'"
The air shifted subtly.
"Particular habits?" Sophia asked.
"Yes. Like if you always do things at fixed times, if you have special requirements for how things are arranged, if…" Mrs. Martha hesitated, "…if the way you express emotions is a bit different from others."
Liam felt Sophia's gaze settle on him. He slowly set down his fork, his movements precise as if handling lab equipment.
"What did you say?" His voice was calm.
"I said Liam is just very organized." Mrs. Martha's expression grew serious. "But honestly, dear, that woman made me uneasy. The way she asked questions… not like a reporter. More like a detective."
Sophia's hand found Liam's under the table and gave it a gentle squeeze. This action wasn't in the notes; it was improvised. Her hand was warm.
"Thank you for telling us, Martha," Sophia said. "If she comes again, please let me know."
"Of course." Mrs. Martha paused. "One more thing. She said she was investigating an old case, fifteen years ago. Said it might be connected to someone in our community. I didn't ask more, but…" She looked at Liam. "Are you alright, dear?"
"I'm fine." Liam said, then added a smile—corners of the mouth raised to the appropriate angle, eyes slightly narrowed, duration 2.5 seconds.
After Mrs. Martha left, Emma was sent upstairs to draw. Only husband and wife remained in the kitchen, along with half an uneaten apple pie.
"She's investigating you." Sophia said. It wasn't a question.
"It appears so."
"Why?"
Liam began clearing the dishes. The tap water was set to forty-two degrees, the optimal temperature for cutting grease. "Perhaps she thinks I have story value. A community hero teaching art to troubled teens, with a mysterious past—good material."
"It's more than material." Sophia leaned against the counter, watching him wash. "She mentioned emotional expression. That's specific, Liam. She's not guessing."
The plate spun under the stream of water. Liam scrubbed the edges with the sponge, even pressure, three times per side. "I am different from most people. You've always known that."
"I know." Sophia's voice softened. "But that's between us. It's not material for a reporter's column."
Liam turned off the water and faced his wife. He was still wearing rubber gloves, dripping. "Is there something you want to ask me, Sophia?"
A direct question. High-risk strategy, but sometimes high risk yields high reward.
Sophia was silent for a few seconds. Her eyes searched his face like reading a complex text. "I want to ask who called you today."
Liam's mind instantly assessed: She heard? Impossible. She was upstairs when I took the call in the kitchen. But Sophia is a detective. Observation is her instinct.
"What call?" he asked, his expression perfectly controlled.
"This morning, you took a call, very short. Afterward, you stood in the middle of the kitchen, holding the milk carton, completely still for twenty-seven seconds." Sophia took a step closer. "You only do that when you've received important information. Like a computer loading data."
The analogy was accurate. Liam took off his gloves and hung them neatly on the hook. "It was the art center. A student had an emergency."
"Which student?"
"Kyle Miller. He needed welding advice." The lie flowed smoothly, like a rehearsed line. Partially true—Kyle did call sometimes for advice. Just not today.
Sophia stared at him, suspicion in her eyes like an undercurrent beneath thin ice. Then she sighed, her shoulders slumping. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't interrogate you."
"You're a detective. It's your instinct."
"But you're not a suspect." She hugged him, burying her face in his shoulder. "You're my husband."
Liam's hands hovered, then slowly settled on her back. Note #203: Comforting physical contact, 1.2 pats per second. But he didn't count. He just held her, feeling the rhythm of her breathing, the scent of her shampoo—citrus and mint, the brand she'd used for three years.
"Sophia," he said softly, "if one day, you discover I'm…"
"Discover you're what?"
He paused. Data streams collided in his consciousness, seeking the optimal expression. "Discover I'm not the person you imagine me to be."
Sophia looked up, her eyes unusually bright in the kitchen light. "Liam, I knew you weren't 'ordinary' when I married you. You need fifteen minutes of complete quiet each morning before you can speak. You sort your socks by color and degree of wear. You remember which days of the month I get migraines and have warm water and pills ready. When you look at Emma, there's a kind of… calculated tenderness in your eyes. I know all that."
She touched his face. "I didn't fall in love with perfection. I fell in love with the effort you make to learn how to be human."
The tightness in Liam's chest returned, stronger this time. His breathing rate increased by fifteen percent. "What if I haven't learned well enough?"
"Then keep learning." She smiled. "And I'll keep learning too. Learning how to love someone who doesn't need saving, but might need understanding."
Outside, the sky darkened. The snowman's orange hat glowed like the last ember of dusk in the twilight.
That night, after Sophia and Emma were asleep, Liam went into his studio. The metal sculpture, Home, gleamed coldly in the moonlight. He touched the bicycle chain links. The engraving on the inside was almost imperceptible to the touch: I Am Not Him.
He opened an encrypted folder and pulled up the fifteen-year-old files. Not police files. His own records—diaries, photos, timelines. March 14, 2007, circled in red.
That day, he was in Seattle. There was evidence, but not strong enough. There were witnesses, but not credible enough.
Because Lucas Green had to be in Boston. Because the story needed a villain.
He flipped to an old photo: two boys, around ten, standing under an oak tree. One blond, with a bright smile; one dark-haired, with a serious expression. On the back was written: Lucas and Liam, Summer 1995.
The blond boy was the real Liam Stone. The dark-haired boy was Lucas Green.
But the world only knew one of those names was still alive.
The other, according to official records, died in a car accident in 2002. The body was never found.
Liam closed the folder and walked to the window. The snow had stopped. The moon emerged from behind the clouds, its face pale. Across the street, a car slowly drove by, its taillights dragging two red trails on the snow.
Not Olivia's car. This one was dark, an older model.
The car stopped at the corner. The driver's door opened. A man got out, leaned against the car, and lit a cigarette. The flame briefly illuminated his face—forties, sharp features, a long, thin scar on his left cheek.
The man looked up, his gaze aiming directly at Liam's window.
They looked at each other across the snowy night. Five seconds. Ten.
Then the man raised his hand. Not a wave. His index and middle fingers touched his forehead together—an old-fashioned salute.
Then he got back in the car and drove away.
Liam stood in the dark, his fingers unconsciously tapping the windowsill. Twice a second, for seventeen seconds.
He knew who that man was.
Brother.
Or rather, the real brother of Liam Stone. The one who was supposed to be dead, but was clearly very much alive.
The snow began again, fine and dense, like the sky was scattering salt, trying to cover all traces on the ground.
But in some places, the traces were too deep. The salt only made them clearer.