Chapter 3

"I was home," Chloe repeated.

Her voice was hoarse.

She stood in front of the police, her parents beside her, their faces etched with shock and worry.

"I have witnesses. My parents. Mark."

She looked at Mark for support.

He stood stiffly, not meeting her gaze.

"I never left this house. Look at me. I have no new bruises, no marks. I was here."

She stretched out her arms, wanting them to see her skin, clean and unmarked.

A detective, a man with tired eyes, leaned forward.

"Ms. Thorne, we understand your denial. Everyone in this situation denies it. But the evidence is overwhelming."

He gestured to a tablet.

"We have your fiancé' s statement, which contradicts your claim."

Mark flinched.

Chloe' s heart sank.

He had already thrown her under the bus.

"The video shows a distinct birthmark on your left shoulder," another officer stated, pointing at a paused frame on the tablet.

"We can see it clearly. It matches yours."

Chloe looked at the screen.

The angle, the lighting, it was perfect.

Her birthmark, a small, star-shaped mark, was undeniable.

Also, a small scar above her right eyebrow, from a childhood accident, was visible.

Every subtle detail matched.

It was her.

But it wasn' t.

"The DNA results are back," the first detective continued.

His voice was flat.

"They match yours. A 99.9% certainty. The video timestamp lines up exactly with the hotel' s security footage of you entering the building. We have multiple corroborating statements from hotel staff who saw you."

Chloe felt the air leave her lungs.

Each piece of evidence was a hammer blow.

It was impossible to fight.

It was her, yet it was not her.

The walls of the room seemed to close in.

She felt a deep, sickening despair.

There was no way out.

Outside the house, a crowd had gathered.

Their faces were a mix of anger and morbid curiosity.

They shouted insults.

"Whore!"

"Disgrace!"

Their eyes were cold, filled with judgment.

They pointed fingers as the police led Chloe out.

The weight of their gaze felt like physical pressure.

It was suffocating.

A group of women pushed through the police line.

Their faces contorted with rage.

"You ruined my husband' s life!" one screamed.

Another lunged, her hand connecting with Chloe' s arm.

The impact was sharp, a burning pain.

"You' ll pay for this!" another woman yelled, her voice raw.

Police quickly intervened, pulling them back.

Chloe stumbled, but her parents held her steady.

Chloe looked at the angry faces, then at her parents.

How could this be happening?

She had done nothing wrong.

She was innocent.

Yet, every piece of evidence, every person' s word, screamed guilt.

Who was this person in the video?

How could she look exactly like her?

A chilling thought began to form in her mind, a desperate, illogical possibility.

She stared at the hotel on the news screen.

The abstract painting.

The hotel.

It all clicked into place.