Chapter 2: The Face She Was Never Supposed to Remember
Clara's hands were shaking so badly she could barely hold the newspaper page.
She turned it over.
There was a date.
Three years ago, almost to the day.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
The man didn't look up.
His eyes stayed fixed on the window behind her.
"Someone who's been watching you make the same mistake for six months," he said quietly.
"Going to the same office.
Taking the same train.
Sitting in the same seat."
"That's not an answer."
"No," he said.
"It's a warning."
Clara forced herself not to turn around.
Three cars back.
She could feel it now—a pressure at the base of her skull, like being watched through a scope.
"The name on that obituary," she said, her voice barely holding.
"Clara Vance.
That's not my name.
My name is James.
Clara James."
The man finally looked at her.
Something shifted behind his eyes—not surprise.
Pity.
"That's what they wanted you to believe," he said.
"James was your mother's maiden name.
They gave it to you when they relocated you.
You were never supposed to remember anything before Chicago."
The train lurched.
Clara grabbed the edge of the table.
"What did I see?" she asked.
"Before Chicago—what did I see that made them do this to me?"
He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a second folded page.
This one wasn't a newspaper.
It was a photograph.
A boardroom.
Men in suits.
And standing at the center of the table—
Clara's breath stopped.
She knew that face.
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What Clara sees in that photograph will change everything she thought she knew about her own life.
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