Chapter 3

"We need to arrange Mark's funeral," I announced a few days later, my voice carefully subdued.

We were in the main living room, the three of them – Mark (as David), Jessica, and Eleanor – looking at me.

Jessica sniffled. "Oh, Clara, it's so soon. Are you sure you're up to it?"

Her concern was as fake as her eyelashes.

"It's what Mark would have wanted," I said, looking directly at the man pretending to be his own brother. "A proper send-off. And it needs to be public, for his employees, for the city. He was a prominent man."

Mark, as David, nodded slowly. "She's right, Mom, Jessica. Mark deserves that."

His eyes held a glint of something – approval? Relief? He wanted Mark Reinhart declared legally and very publicly dead. So did I, but for entirely different reasons.

Eleanor, ever practical when it suited her, agreed. "Yes. It will provide closure. For everyone." Her gaze lingered on me, a silent warning.

I spent the next week meticulously planning the most lavish, high-profile funeral the city had ever seen.

I insisted on an open casket, "for those who need to say a final goodbye."

Of course, the body in the casket was David' s, identified by Mark himself before he switched their identities at the lab, likely using dental records he'd somehow swapped or faked.

The funeral was a spectacle.

The mayor spoke, business leaders, tearful Innovatech employees.

Mark, playing the grieving twin "David," stood beside me, a pillar of feigned sorrow, with Jessica clinging to his arm, the picture of a supportive sister-in-law.

Eleanor looked regal in her mourning attire.

I cried on cue, my face buried in a handkerchief, but behind it, my eyes were dry and watchful.

Every eulogy, every tear shed by strangers, every news report solidified it: Mark Reinhart was dead.

David Reinhart, his amnesiac twin, was the survivor.

This was crucial. His legal death was the first lock in the cage I was building for him.

After the funeral, back at the estate, the atmosphere shifted.

The pretense of deep mourning began to fray around the edges, replaced by a hungry anticipation from Jessica and Eleanor.

Mark, as David, started "recalling" things, conveniently things that helped him access Mark' s life.

"I remember... Mark talked about some important files in his study," he' d say.

Or, "Did Mark have a particular lawyer he trusted?"

I played along, the grieving widow, too shattered to think straight.

"I... I don't know, David. Mark handled all of that."

My apparent helplessness seemed to please them.

They thought I was broken. Good.

A broken woman was no threat.

A broken woman wouldn't notice them starting to circle my inheritance, the substantial trust fund left by my parents.

They didn't know this broken woman was piecing herself back together with shards of vengeance.