Thursday, 11:09 AM
Two envelopes lay in the mailbox.
The first was an invitation to the Harrison Walker Foundation's annual charity gala, the embossed gold lettering glaring in the morning light. The second was an express delivery envelope from the Chicago Tribune, with no sender's name.
Liam stood on the porch, his finger tracing the edge of the first envelope—80gsm coated paper, 0.12mm thick, German-made. Details like these he never forgot, just as he remembered seeing the same paper on his professor's desk fifteen years earlier.
"The Harrison Walker Foundation cordially invites Mr. Liam Stone and family…" he read aloud, then paused. "…and family."
Sophia leaned out from inside, her police uniform collar still not fully fastened. "What?"
"The invitation says 'and family.'" Liam held up the envelope. "The Walker Foundation usually invites individuals only. Family invitation is a new clause this year."
Sophia took the invitation, her eyes quickly scanning the text. Her expression shifted from confusion to alertness, like a hound catching an unfamiliar scent.
"Security detail approved," she said. "I'll be inside. Mark Rosen will lead the FBI team for the perimeter."
"Does he know I'll be there?"
"I wrote 'spouse attending' on the application form." Sophia's voice was low. "But he doesn't know you're… he doesn't know."
Liam opened the second envelope. Inside was only a clipped article from the Chicago Tribune and a handwritten card.
The clipping was Olivia Chase's latest column, the headline glaring:
"The Perfect Facade: When a Community Hero Shares the Face of a Fugitive from an Unsolved Case"
No names were mentioned, but the description was terrifyingly precise: "…a beloved community art mentor, warming the hearts of countless troubled youth through metal sculptures. Yet, if we closely observe certain elements in his work—particularly those human silhouettes pieced together from industrial parts—we find a startling resemblance to the graduation project of a missing prodigy student from an unsolved case at MIT fifteen years ago. Coincidence, or the artist's subconscious confession?"
On the card, a single line in elegant cursive:
"Truth needs no name, only seeing eyes. I look forward to discussing art and authenticity with you at Friday's gala. —Olivia Chase"
Sophia snatched the card, her knuckles whitening. "This is a threat."
"It's an invitation." Liam said calmly. "She's telling me she knows. Now she's choosing: expose and destroy me, or… negotiate terms."
"What terms?"
Liam looked out the window. Mrs. Martha was mowing the lawn next door, movements rhythmic like a metronome. Everything appeared normal, but normalcy itself was the greatest anomaly.
"She wants to be the one who reveals the truth." he said. "But there are two kinds of truth: facts and stories. She's waiting for us to decide which one to give her."
2:17 PM, Studio
The metal sculpture Home cast intricate shadows in the afternoon sun. Liam stood before it, his hand hovering over a particular component—a modified bicycle derailleur gear, laser-engraved words visible only from a specific angle.
The door opened. No knock.
Kyle stood at the entrance, hood pulled low over his face, hands buried in his pockets. A posture signifying defense or concealment.
"You need an appointment." Liam didn't turn around.
"Can't wait." Kyle's voice was hoarse. "Someone's asking about you."
Liam slowly turned. The boy's face was pale, dark shadows under his eyes—not from lack of sleep, but fear.
"What kind of people?"
"Two guys. Black SUV, tinted windows. Waited outside my house yesterday." Kyle swallowed. "They asked… if you ever taught me anything special."
"Special things?"
"Like…" the boy gestured, "…not just welding. How to hide fingerprints, how to tell if you're being followed, how to… create an alibi."
The air in the studio grew thick.
"What did you tell them?" Liam asked.
"Said you only teach art." Kyle took a step closer. "They didn't believe me. One of them… he had a tattoo behind his ear. Spiderweb pattern."
Liam's mental database retrieved the data: a signature tattoo of a South Side Chicago gang, members often engaged in "professional cleaning" work—not the housekeeping kind.
"What else did they say?"
"They said…" Kyle's voice dropped to a whisper, "'Tell your teacher some games are for two players only. Don't drag kids into it.'"
The boy looked up, eyes holding the kind of hollowness Liam recognized—not emotional absence, but the numbness that comes after reality shatters.
"Who are you really, Mr. Stone?"
The question was simple, and complex.
Liam walked to the workbench, pulled a metal box from a drawer. Inside weren't tools, but a stack of cash and three passports under different names. Supplies from his flight fifteen years ago, he'd thought he'd never open it again.
"I'm someone who made a mistake." He took out a stack of bills, pushed it toward Kyle. "Enough to get you out of Chicago for three months. West Coast. Don't use your real name. Don't contact anyone."
Kyle stared at the money, unmoving. "What about you?"
"I'm going to fix that mistake."
"Can't fix mistakes with money."
"But it can give you the chance to fix yours." Liam closed the box. "You're sixteen, Kyle. Your life isn't defined yet. Don't let my past become your future."
The boy was silent for a long time. Finally, he reached for the cash, but took only two-thirds.
"The rest," he said, "use it to buy your chance."
He turned to leave, pausing at the door. "That spiderweb tattoo… I've seen it in the news. Last year's warehouse fire in the South Side, three witnesses burned. Police called it an accident. My cousin said it wasn't."
The door closed.
Liam stood still, listening to the footsteps fade. He walked to the window, lifted a slat of the blinds.
Across the street, a black SUV was parked in the shade. The driver's window was half down, a man smoking inside. Sunlight caught the skin behind his ear—the spiderweb tattoo clearly visible.
The passenger was looking at his phone. Screen light illuminated his face, and Liam recognized it.
Harrison Walker's private security chief. Appeared in charity gala report photos three years ago.
The game had begun.
4:30 PM, Soccer Field
Emma's scream wasn't fear, but excitement. She'd just scored her second goal and was sprinting around the field's edge.
Liam sat on the bench, his gaze following his daughter while his peripheral vision locked onto the treeline. A gray sedan had been parked there for two hours without moving. Tinted windows, impossible to see inside.
Sophia texted: "Mark wants to meet early. Now. Riverside Café."
He replied: "Emma has 20 minutes left."
"Bring her. Mark insists."
Not a good sign. FBI agents don't insist on meeting minors in informal settings unless…
Unless he already suspected something.
"Dad!" Emma rushed over, sweaty and beaming. "Can we get ice cream? Mrs. Martha said there's a new place!"
"Another day." Liam wiped her forehead. "We need to meet one of Mom's colleagues now."
"A police colleague?"
"Yes."
Emma's small face turned serious. "Are the bad guys here?"
Children's questions always went straight to the core.
"Just being careful." Liam took her hand. "Remember, if anyone asks you about Dad…"
"I say 'Dad is the best dad ever'!" Emma answered promptly—a phrase Sophia had taught her.
"Right." Liam smiled, a smile that required conscious control of his lips—Note 187: When smiling at children, reduce intensity to avoid appearing false.
As they walked to the parking lot, the gray sedan in the treeline started its engine.
5:07 PM, Riverside Café
Mark Rosen sat at a corner table, a laptop and three file folders before him. He wore the standard FBI dark suit, but his tie was loosened—a stress signal.
"Sophia's on her way." He stood to shake hands, grip firm and authoritative—typical law enforcement handshake. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Stone."
"Emma, this is Agent Rosen." Liam said.
The little girl stared at Mark for three seconds, then said, "Your gun is on the left."
Mark's smile froze. His service weapon was indeed under his left arm, well concealed beneath the jacket.
"How did you know that?" he asked, trying to keep his tone light.
"Your left shoulder is a little lower when you walk." Emma tilted her head. "Dad taught me to notice body asymmetry."
Mark looked at Liam, his eyes sharpening. "Interesting lesson content."
"Observation is fundamental to art." Liam pulled out a chair. "What did you want to discuss?"
The agent didn't answer immediately. He opened the middle folder and pushed it forward. Inside were surveillance photos—the black SUV outside Liam's studio, Olivia Chase at his mailbox, Liam and Kyle outside the community center.
"Your social circle is quite interesting." Mark said. "Involves a journalist, a troubled teen, and…" he flipped to the next page, "…a vehicle registered to the Harrison Walker Foundation."
The photo was clear enough to show the license plate and the driver's spiderweb tattoo.
"Do you know this man?" Mark asked.
"No."
"But your student Kyle Miller does. We questioned him this morning." Mark leaned forward. "He said these two men threatened him. About you."
Liam felt Emma's small hand tighten around his jacket hem. He patted her hand—once, one-second pause, again—their private signal: don't be afraid.
"If my student was threatened, I should report it." Liam said.
"Your wife is a police lieutenant." Mark leaned back. "But you didn't tell her. Why?"
The café door chimed. Sophia walked in, her police jacket draped over her arm. Seeing the photos on the table, her face turned cold.
"Mark, we agreed—"
"Agreed on what?" Mark interrupted. "To not discuss the investigation in front of your husband? Sorry, Sophia, but this is a murder case. Three copycat killings, a possibly still-at-large fugitive, and…" he looked at Liam, "…a husband who matches the perpetrator's profile perfectly."
The air froze.
Emma whispered, "Dad's not bad."
"Of course not, sweetheart." Mark's voice softened, but his eyes remained fixed on Liam. "I just need Mr. Stone to explain some timeline discrepancies."
He pulled out another document. MIT course records from 2007, bearing Lucas Green's signature. Beside it, Seattle Art Center exhibition records from 2007, featuring artist Liam Stone.
"Based on flight records and event photographs," Mark tapped the two documents, "one person cannot be in Boston and Seattle simultaneously. Unless…"
"Unless what?" Sophia's voice was tight.
"Unless one of these identities is forged." Mark stared directly at Liam. "Or both are."
Outside the window, a sightseeing boat slowly glided down the river. Tourists' laughter filtered through the glass, distant and unreal.
Liam looked at the documents on the table, at that meticulously constructed "evidence." Fifteen years ago, the same method, the same "perfect" contradictions. History repeating, but this time he wasn't the panicked boy fleeing.
"Agent Rosen," he began, voice steady as if discussing the weather, "do you believe someone with an emotional disorder can perfectly mimic a normal person?"
Mark frowned. "Theoretically, high-functioning individuals can. But maintaining it long-term requires immense willpower and…"
"Detailed records." Liam took the leather-bound notebook from his inner pocket and placed it on the table. "Like this one."
Sophia gasped. Mark reached for it, but Liam pressed his hand over it.
"This documents how I've learned to be a husband and a father over the past seven years." He opened to a page dense with entries. "How to tell if my wife needs a hug or space, how to respond to my daughter's fears, how to smile at the right times."
Mark skimmed several pages, his expression shifting from suspicion to a complex kind of astonishment.
"You're saying… all this is performance?"
"No." Liam looked at Sophia. "Performance requires an audience. But love… love requires a learner."
He flipped to the notebook's last page. No entries, just a single sentence in childlike handwriting—Emma's:
"Dad cried today. Not because he was sad, because I drew a family picture. He said it was the first time he learned tears could be sweet."
Beneath it, Liam's own handwriting added:
"Emotional Handbook Rule #1: Void. Real feeling needs no guide."
Sophia's tears fell silently. She took her husband's hand, fingers interlacing.
Mark stared at that page for a long time. Finally, he closed the notebook and pushed it back toward Liam.
"I'll need to verify these timelines." His voice was weary. "But I'll tell you this, Mr. Stone: if anything happens at Friday's gala… my priority will be protecting your family, not the truth."
"The truth and my family aren't in conflict." Liam said.
"Let's hope not." Mark stood, gathering his files. "By the way, Olivia Chase applied for media credentials for the gala. She'll be there."
After he left, only the sound of the flowing river remained in the café.
Emma whispered, "Was that uncle a bad guy?"
"No." Sophia wiped her tears. "He just… trusts paperwork too much."
Liam looked out the window. The gray sedan was parked across the street, its occupants clearly visible. The man with the spiderweb tattoo was observing them through binoculars.
The game continued, but the rules had changed.
"Friday night," Sophia said quietly, "we arrive together, we leave together. No matter what happens."
"No matter what." Liam repeated.
He thought of that night fifteen years ago when he decided to run. Fear, confusion, isolation. But this time was different.
This time, he held his wife's hand, felt his daughter's warmth.
This time, he wasn't alone in the dark.
Outside, the setting sun began to dip, staining the river blood-red. Over Chicago's skyline, storm clouds gathered once more.
But this time, Liam Stone—or Lucas Green—was no longer afraid of the storm.
Because he finally understood:
Some battles aren't fought to prove who you are.
They're fought to protect who you love.