Her account hasn’t been active long. The earliest activity was an uploaded profile pic with the caption: Ugh old account got hacked so let’s be friends here! about a week after I arrived in Lake Forbing.
It was the second post that confirmed it was not a harmless coincidence that she showed up in this town, with my name and details matching my own history.
When I was in sixth grade, my class took a field trip to a local farm, where we spent the day playing farmer and doing chores like milking cows and feeding chickens. Somehow, that woman found the group picture we took at the end of the day and posted it as a Throwback Thursday with the caption: Look what I found while going through some old boxes! Such a fun day! Tag yourself if I missed you.
In the picture, I sat crossed-legged in the front row, second from the left, in my jeans and favorite red sweatshirt Mama had trimmed with navy gingham ribbon around the collar, cuffs, and bottom hem.
Several people I went to school with—classmates I haven’t thought about in years—tagged themselves in the post. It was a virtual reunion in the comments section, as most of them reached out to tell her they’re happy to reconnect, fully believing she is me.
I had gone back to that profile pic and studied it until my eyes were blurry. Her head is turned, that long hair covering most of her face, and she’s laughing. It’s a great candid shot. The last time those old friends had seen me I was a teenager with baby fat still clinging to my cheeks. It’s easy to see why they believe she’s exactly who she says she is.
If this were any other job, I would have grabbed my few belongings and gotten the hell out of town the second she was introduced to me, but the ramifications of abandoning this job override that instinct. I can’t run. Not yet. Not after the last job.
It has taken everything in me to maintain the level of carefree, happy girlfriend that came second nature before the Derby party, in order to keep Ryan from suspecting anything is off.
A glance at the kitchen clock has me moving. I rinse my coffee cup in the sink before grabbing my bag and heading to the garage.
After a lot of thought, it’s time to make the call I’ve been putting off, but only from the privacy of my own car. While there is still a slim possibility that someone other than my boss sent the impostor here, it is very unlikely. If my boss were to find out about this woman from any source other than me, there would no doubt be serious consequences. Calling this in is what’s expected of me, and right now, I need to be 100 percent predictable.
With my car still hidden away in Ryan’s garage, I open the glove box and pull out the prepaid phone, removing it from the package. It will be used one time and then destroyed.
Once it’s powered on, I dial the number I memorized at the beginning of this job. The call connects and the robotic voice asks, “Is there a problem?” With all the voice recognition software available, the true sound of Mr. Smith’s voice is a secret that’s guarded as meticulously as his real name.
“Significant development that makes this call necessary. Made contact with a woman claiming to be me. Used my original name, stated she was from my hometown, used details from my past as hers. Please advise.”
The pause is uncomfortably long.
“Yet you waited three days to report this development.”
Shit.
“Wanted to be one hundred percent sure it was not a coincidence before—”
He interrupts me before I finish. “I felt you needed a reminder that you are replaceable. Treat her arrival as motivation to successfully complete this job as opposed to the utter failure of your last one. Once this job is finished to my satisfaction, you will return to being the only Lucca Marino from Eden, North Carolina, in my employ.” He pauses for a moment and then adds, “I know how important that is to you.”
If the information I was supposed to have turned over to him on my last job hadn’t been extremely sensitive, I don’t think Mr. Smith would feel the need to threaten me like this. I might not know exactly how badly that woman with my name and my background being here can hurt me, but that doesn’t mean she can’t hurt me. Mr. Smith doesn’t do anything without good reason.
In this line of work, being replaced doesn’t mean you’re let go without a letter of recommendation. Even if I don’t know Mr. Smith’s real name, I know enough that I don’t get to just walk away.
My free hand grips the steering wheel and I swallow down the urge to scream. When I’m sure my voice is controlled, I say, “I don’t particularly like having a threat hanging over me, especially after all the jobs I have successfully completed.”