There was very little cash inside, but the wallet was stuffed with credit cards and fresh receipts. She was about to toss it when she noticed a driver’s license peeking out. She pulled it free, looked at the photo, and felt a jolt of recognition.
“Arsen Strickland,” she read aloud, then froze. She lifted her eyes to the granite memorial and realized the same face was staring back at her from the engraved portrait. Same name. Same features. No question.
“That makes no sense,” she murmured, crossing her arms against a sudden chill. “If this man has been dead for a year, why are his documents brand-new?”
The wallet was in perfect condition—no dirt, no moisture, no sign it had been lying there long. And the receipts inside had been printed that very morning. Trying not to jump to conclusions, Julia slipped the wallet into the pocket of her worn jacket.
The small amount of cash might have helped, but using the cards was out of the question. She had no intention of risking another criminal charge. Still, curiosity got the better of her, and over the next few days she returned to that grave, hoping to run into a relative who might explain it.
A few days later, she got her chance. A broad-shouldered man was sitting on the bench nearby. Julia approached carefully and asked whether he had been related to the deceased. The man turned around, and she stopped cold.
Under a thick beard were the same eyes she had seen on the memorial and the license photo. “Oh my God,” she blurted, instinctively grabbing her stomach. The shock triggered a wave of painful tightening across her abdomen.
Afraid she might go into labor right there in the cemetery, she lowered herself onto the bench and focused on breathing. “Easy,” she whispered to herself, one hand on her belly. “Just breathe.”
“Do you need help?” the man asked, reaching toward her shoulder. “But you’re supposed to be…” she said, pointing weakly at the headstone.
The dark-haired man gave her a tired, almost apologetic smile. “I’m not a ghost,” he said. “I’m very much alive. Just take a breath, and I’ll explain.” Once the pain eased, he began to tell her his story.
“I had to fake my death to avoid being killed for real. Someone’s been trying very hard to make sure I don’t survive.” Julia stared at him in disbelief.
“Who?” she asked. “My stepmother and her son,” Arsen said bitterly. “After my father died, they decided they wanted full control of the company. I was in the way.”
“I was adopted, but my father loved me like his own and intended for me to run the business. I’m older than Oleg, and he trusted me.” Julia shook her head. “That’s awful.” Arsen nodded.
“They started with my car. My stepmother paid off a mechanic, and the brakes failed. I barely got out before it exploded.” Julia covered her mouth.
