Identity Issues (28 page)

I’d begged Jon to climb out of bed and tell me what he saw in the stars. He teased me about being lazy. Then, he eased himself up and walked to the window. He stood naked in the moonlight.

"You’ve gotta come here, babe," he said, smiling. "It’s magic."

"I can’t," I whined. "My legs are too heavy."

"No," Jon said. "Really. You have to see this."

When I lumbered over his side of the bed and rose, bitching and complaining the entire time, I reached the window and glanced up just in time to see a shooting star. Jon draped his arm around me and looked at me with loving eyes.

"That’s our star," he said as he pointed toward the sky, "shooting into the universe. Our love burning bright."

"You are such a sap," I chided as I shoved my elbow into his middle.

"A sap who loves you."

Jon had held me close that night. I closed my eyes, and I could still feel him.

Jon, never coming home. I couldn’t imagine. But then I could. Would I miss him? Or would I miss the idea of him? I was used to doing it all alone.

Until very recently, I hadn’t realized how lonesome I’d become. Would I ever forget the voice of the woman who’d answered the phone in his hotel room? I guessed that was McGrath’s fault. Being with someone, feeling connected to the universe, had made me realize I’d been alone, and lonely, for a very long time. I sighed heavily and a tear slipped down my cheek.

I squeezed my eyes shut tight, praying the sleep would rescue me from pain, from loss, from thought.

M
CGRATH CALLED THE next morning, first to inform me that I wouldn’t be charged in the shooting. And second, to ask what time I’d like him to meet me at my home. We agreed on late afternoon.

I fed the kids and chatted with them. More tears were shed, but they felt therapeutic. A teary–eyed Lizzie begged me not to leave, but Annie wrapped an arm around her, distracting her with the promise of a Monopoly game.

Jack arrived, tossed a football with Nick and Will for ten minutes, and then loaded me and my belongings into the car. We made it back to the house a little before 6:00 p.m., and I realized that the place looked no different. No yellow crime tape. No cops loitering in the driveway. No coroner’s van to transport a dead body. No men in suits.

"You okay?" Jack asked as he parked and turned off the ignition.

"I guess. Don’t have much of a choice, do I?"

"Hey, your buddy’s already here."

Jack stepped out of the car, walked up to McGrath, who stood on the front sidewalk, and shook his hand. I exited the car and approached the two of them. McGrath wrapped a protective arm around my shoulder.

"How are you, Sam?"

I simply nodded.

"You’re a strong woman. You’re gonna get through this." He looked at Jack and then they both nodded at me with tender eyes.

"Well, I’m not feeling strong right now," I admitted. "I feel like I’ve been flattened by a bulldozer."

Jack told McGrath, "She’s the feistiest woman I know. She’s gonna make it." He leaned over, kissed my cheek, and added before he turned to leave, "Take good care of her."

We stood and watched Jack back down the driveway and head for home.

"Ready to go inside?" McGrath asked me.

I turned and walked toward the front door, unlocked it and entered. Nothing appeared changed inside the house. I made my way to the top of the basement stairs, then glanced over my shoulder at McGrath, who stood behind me.

"I’m okay," I reassured him. "But I need to check out the basement and make sure there’s no sign of what went on here the other night."

"I can do that for you."

"No," I said. "It’s mine to do."

"Are you sure?"

I nodded.

"I’ll be right with you… every step of the way, Sam."

I nodded, opened the door to the basement, and looked down into the stairwell after flipping on the light. Nothing. Empty. No sign of a struggle. No blood. Nada.

I moved carefully down the stairs. How could there be no evidence of the drama that had played out here a mere two nights ago? I had killed the man who’d stolen my husband’s identity. It was the end of Jon Stitsill. Both Jon’s were gone. Rex, too. Yet, not one visible sign of any of it.

A metal box sat at the bottom of the stairs. It had been jimmied open. I picked it up, sat down on the adjacent step, and placed it in my lap. I lifted the lid to examine the contents, discovering Nick’s collection of old keys, a few of his favorite actions figures, and the bobber that he’d used when he caught his first big fish. Had Stitsill been stealing this box when I saw his shadow? Had the box gripped in his hands kept him from shooting me first?

As I looked through the box, I wondered what the Stitsill impostor had expected to find secreted within it. What on earth could have been so important to him?

I felt wobbly again and fought the urges that tried to take hold. Fainting, vomiting, crawling inside a cave and retreating, never to come into the light again.

"You don’t look so good," McGrath said.

"Need… air," I gasped.

McGrath nodded, then led me up the stairs to the front porch where I steadied myself. It was then that I noticed a package on the stoop, hidden behind the bench in the corner, the exact spot the UPS and I agreed on in my absence.

"God, no," I said, peering at the return address. Rosie’s address. I could barely breathe.

McGrath looked from me to the box, registering its significance after a brief moment.

I gripped the porch railing, inching along, settling slowly into the rocker, and gesturing to McGrath to bring me the parcel. After he set it in my lap, he withdrew a folding knife from his pocket and handed it to me. I slashed the tape and lifted the sides of the box, steeling myself to its contents. An envelope lay across another sealed box which Rosie had nested inside, addressed to me. The message on the outside read: OPEN AFTER MY DEATH. I closed my eyes and shook my head.

"I’ll get you some water," McGrath said.

I sat for a long moment, coaching myself.
Do this now. Get it over with.
I reminded myself to breathe. McGrath handed me a glass of cool water. I took a sip and swallowed. Then, I opened the envelope and unfolded the handwritten letter.

I turned over the letter, dumbstruck and overwhelmed. Haphazardly scribbled on its back was a name. Lucas Sweeney. I passed the letter to McGrath. He read it, turned it over as I had done and said, "Lucas Sweeney?"

I shrugged. "No idea."

Inside the second sealed box, I found a strong box resembling the metal box with Nick’s treasures which Stitsill had unearthed from the sump room. This must have been what he had hoped to find in my home. I looked at McGrath, and he nodded. We both understood.

I swallowed hard before lifting the lid. Navy leather passports lay across the top, rubber–banded together. Five of them. I removed the rubber band and lined them up, side by side. I opened them, checking the names and photos on each. The first four bore photos of Jon Stitsill, the impostor, the same man I’d seen in the wedding photos Rosie had delivered to school. Made sense, I thought, that he needed an array of passports. He’d probably required an assortment of documents when he’s played different roles. As I suspected, different names appeared on each passport. Raymond James, Quentin Martin, Mark Jeffries, and Samuel Johnston.  The last passport jumped out at me. Immigration stamps from the places where my Jon had been. His trips. His place of birth. While Stitsill had changed the photo, the information that stared up at me was my Jon’s. The stamps from the places where my Jon had traveled. I wept silently as I passed it to Jim McGrath.

Stacked beneath the passports I found documents, receipts, and letters. At first, I couldn’t make heads or tails of them.

I looked at McGrath for answers. He read the question in my eyes. "Federal cover–ups happen all the time."

"Why can’t I believe this?"

"I felt bad that I couldn’t tell you then, not in front of the penguins, but remember what I told you? Those guys who showed up after you killed that guy weren’t cops. They were Feds. Not FBI, but maybe CIA. Maybe NSA, I’m not sure. And the local cops were bypassed for a reason," McGrath said. "We may find out why someday, but then again, we may not. Trust me, this never happened. They’ll make it disappear."

No wonder there wouldn’t be an investigation. The Feds didn’t want this to come to light anymore than I did. This guy had probably been on their payroll, doing a really dirty job. Maybe that’s why he’d been in Botswana. Then Mexico. I couldn’t help but wonder if my Jon had wound up on his list somehow. Time would allow me the opportunity to decide.

"Sam, are you going to turn this stuff over to the Feds?" McGrath certainly recognized the significance of the documents.

"Nothing good can come from this," I said, meeting his somber gaze.

"The Feds would want this."

"That’s exactly what I was thinking." I paused, considering my options.

I scooped up the mess and dumped it into the box. After a long moment I stood, walked inside, placed the box on the table, and dropped into a chair. Then, I asked McGrath if he still had the manila envelope I’d given him with the Botswana letter, the birth and death certificates, and the photos of Rosie’s wedding.

He nodded. He shrugged out of his sports coat, draping it over the back of one of the kitchen table chairs. He leaned down to press a gentle kiss against my forehead. I folded Rosie’s letter, then withdrew one document from Rosie’s package and set it aside. I stood and made my way to the cupboard where I stored used grocery bags. Nodding at the pile of evidence, I watched him transfer the proof of Stitsill’s crimes into the bag.

"Put this with the rest," I said. "I trust you know where it needs to be delivered."

McGrath set the bag by the front door.

When he returned to the kitchen, I asked, "Do you like bonfires, Detective McGrath?"

He grinned at me. "I certainly do."

I marched outside to the wood pile Jon had neatly stacked by the shed. We both loaded up on logs. Once I stacked the wood in the center of the fire pit, I wandered around the yard, gathering twigs and sticks for kindling. McGrath approached me and rested a hand on my shoulder. "Let me," he said.

I nodded, returned to the fire pit and settled into one of the Adirondack chairs positioned at the edge of the ring.

McGrath arranged the logs in the pit, picked up the fire starter from the brick rim, and held it to the kindling.

"Wait," I said, removing the lighter from his hand. "It’s my move." I held the flame to the sticks, waiting patiently until they sparked and caught fire.

We sat in its glow, watching flames lick at the kindling. When the logs began to blaze and crackle, I pressed Jon’s passport to my lips before I tucked it between two fire–engulfed logs. Tears stained my cheeks as I bid my husband goodbye.

McGrath brushed away my tears with gentle fingertips.

I stared at the ground as we sat there. "I’ll close this circle one day. Find out why Jon died, if his accident was indeed an accident. Maybe then, I’ll be able to move past all this."

"You’re a special lady, Sam."

Air gusted out of my lungs. I turned to look at McGrath. As always, the tenderness in his eyes managed to pierce my heavy armor. I swallowed hard. "I have feelings for you," I said. "Strong feelings that confuse me right now. And in the midst of all of this, I have a husband to bury and five kids who need me. My life is a mess. For now, all I can offer you is friendship."

He held my gaze as he nodded.

"I’m a very patient man," he finally said.

I reached for his hand and squeezed. I didn’t want to let go.

T
HE LIGHT ON the answering machine blinked incessantly. Over the past two months, I’d received calls from all corners of the planet. Calls from people Jon’s life had touched. Acquaintances, associates, friends. I realized the smallness of my world, the sheltered quality of it. Most of all, I slowly accepted how little I’d ever known about Jon and his other life away from home.

Tired of the constant reminders of him, I began to delete the voicemail messages without listening to them. I never heard, "Hello, Mrs. Stitsill, my name is Lucas Sweeney. You and I haven’t met, but I was an associate of your husband in Japan. I’ve been meaning to call. You have my sincerest sympathy. Jon spoke of you and the kids often. He was very proud of all of you. If there’s anything I can do to assist you, here’s my number… thanks."

Would I have done things differently if I’d listened to Lucas Sweeney’s message? Probably not.

–END–

Check out an exerpt
from Intimacy Issues, the next Samantha Stitsill novel!

I
T TOOK MUCH longer than a millisecond for my brain to restart my heart, but it finally did. The man who had stolen my husband’s identity, most likely killed my dog AND my husband, and whom I had supposedly shot breaking and entering my home, stood before me as Consul General Drummond. The Jon Stitsill imposter, alive and well.