Chapter 3 No.3

The diner smelled of stale grease and burnt coffee. It was a dive on the edge of the city, the kind of place people went when they didn't want to be found.

Chris sat in a corner booth, nursing a black coffee. He had cut his own hair in the bathroom mirror with a pocket knife. The shaggy, soft bangs that Elizabeth liked were gone. The result was brutal, uneven, but sharp. It sheared away the soft, boyish look, leaving behind something raw and aggressive.

He pressed two fingers against the lymph nodes in his neck. Swollen. He took a slow breath, detecting the faint, metallic, garlic-like scent on his own exhale-a scent only a trained professional would recognize.

"Arsenic," he murmured. "Micro-dosing."

The Olson family-his father, his stepmother, and his "perfect" brother Bailey-had been slowly poisoning the original Chris for years. Making him weak. Making him mentally unstable so no one would believe him when they finally cut him out of the will.

A waitress walked by, a pot of coffee in her hand. She glanced at him, opened her mouth to offer a refill, then closed it. There was a dark cloud hanging over his booth, a "do not approach" signal that was almost physical. She hurried past.

Chris checked the cheap burner phone. A news alert popped up.

REUNITED: Elizabeth Washington and Greg Valentine spotted at JFK. Is the fairytale back on?

The photo showed Elizabeth looking impeccable in a trench coat, with Greg Valentine-the "White Moonlight"-smiling that practiced, Ivy League smile beside her.

Chris felt a phantom ache in his chest. It was the residual soul of the original host, crying out for the woman who had just discarded him.

"Shut up," Chris hissed under his breath. He closed his eyes and visualized a steel door slamming shut on the emotion. The pain vanished.

He checked the time. The final filing was at the courthouse in an hour.

He stood up, dropped a few crumpled bills on the table-exactly 15%-and walked out.

The courthouse steps were a zoo. Paparazzi swarmed the entrance, hungry for the shot of the "Tragic Ex-Husband."

A silver Rolls-Royce pulled up. The crowd surged. Elizabeth stepped out, looking like royalty. Greg was right behind her, placing a protective hand on the small of her back.

Elizabeth flinched. It was subtle-a tensing of her shoulders, a slight shift of her weight away from him-but Chris saw it from the parking lot.

He got out of his sedan. He was wearing a black t-shirt and jeans. No suit. No tie.

He walked toward the crowd. He didn't push. He just walked with a terrifying, absolute confidence. The reporters sensed it. The sea of cameras parted, silence rippling through the mob as they turned to look at him.

He looked dangerous. He looked like trouble.

Elizabeth saw him. Her smile faltered. She stopped on the steps, forcing Greg to stop with her.

Chris walked right up to them. He stopped on the step below them, so he was looking up, yet somehow, he seemed to be looking down on them.

"So this is the replacement?" Chris asked. His voice carried over the clicking of shutters.

Greg straightened his tie, trying to look authoritative. "Chris. I know this is hard for you. But Elizabeth deserves happiness. She deserves a real man."

Chris laughed. It was a low, menacing sound.

"She deserves exactly what she gets," Chris said. He looked at Elizabeth. Her face was pale, her eyes darting between him and the cameras.

He stepped closer to Greg. He leaned in, invading the man's personal space until he could smell the fear sweating through Greg's expensive cologne.

"Nice suit, Greg," Chris whispered, his voice dropping so only the three of them could hear. "Too bad about the limp dick."

Greg's smile tightened, a flicker of panic in his eyes before he masked it with indignation. His mouth opened, a sharp denial on his lips.

"You're insane, Olson," Greg hissed, trying to shove past him. "Utterly insane."

Chris smirked. He tapped his own temple. "I see everything."

He stepped back, gave Elizabeth a mock salute, and walked past them into the courthouse doors.

Elizabeth stood frozen. She looked at Greg. He was avoiding her gaze, his face a mask of fury, but she had seen that first flash of terror. And it was real.

"What did he say?" she asked, her voice tight.

"Nothing," Greg snapped. "He's crazy. Let's go."

But Elizabeth watched the doors swing shut, a cold knot of dread forming in her stomach.