Chapter 6 - The Ghost in the Machine
I stared at the DNA report, my mind reeling from the catastrophic implications of this discovery.
If this man wasn't Meredith's father, then who the hell had we been living with for the past decade?
I stuffed the DNA report, the life insurance policy, and a stack of financial ledgers into my jacket pockets.
I carefully wiped down the safe, closed the heavy steel door, and slipped back out into the rainy night.
I needed professional help to decode the identity of the monster hiding in plain sight.
I found a payphone at a deserted gas station and dialed the number of an old college friend, Detective Miller.
Miller was a cynical, hardened investigator who owed me his career after I helped him beat a false corruption charge years ago.
I agreed to meet him at a dingy, twenty-four-hour diner on the absolute outskirts of the city.
I sat in the corner booth, sipping black coffee and watching the rain lash against the neon-lit windows.
Miller slid into the booth across from me, his trench coat soaking wet and his eyes filled with grim concern.
"Every cop in the state is looking for you right now, Harrison," Miller whispered urgently.
I didn't waste time defending myself; I simply slid the crystal whiskey glass across the sticky table.
"I need you to run the fingerprints on this glass through the national criminal database," I demanded quietly.
Miller frowned, pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, and carefully bagged the evidence.
"Give me twenty minutes, my partner is working the night shift at the precinct," Miller said, stepping outside to make the call.
I sat in agonizing suspense, watching the clock tick down as my family remained in the clutches of an imposter.
Miller finally walked back into the diner, his face completely pale and his hands physically shaking.
"Harrison, where the hell did you get those fingerprints?" Miller asked, his voice cracking with fear.
"They belong to my father-in-law, Richard," I replied, my stomach tying itself into a painful knot.
Miller shook his head, sliding a digital printout across the table.
"The man you know as Richard does not exist in any legal capacity," Miller stated grimly.
"Those fingerprints belong to Arthur Vance, a notorious human trafficker and serial predator."
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I stared at the terrifying mugshot on the printout, recognizing the cold, dead eyes perfectly.
"Arthur Vance was supposed to have died in a maximum-security prison fire twenty-five years ago," Miller revealed.
