Chapter 4 - Shadows of the Past
I didn't go home that night. I couldn't.
Instead, I drove straight to the brick-faced townhouse in Capitol Hill where my ex-husband, David, lived. We hadn't spoken in nearly two years—not since the final divorce papers were signed and our shared grief became too heavy a burden for our marriage to bear. David had buried his pain in medical research, working as a senior geneticist at Northwest BioTech, while I had buried mine in corporate consulting.
When David opened his door at 9:30 p.m., wearing a faded sweater and holding a stack of medical journals, his eyes widened in shock.
"Eleanor?" he said, peering through the rain. "What's wrong? What happened?"
"I saw them, David," I gasped, stepping past him into his hallway without waiting for an invitation. My coat was soaked, my hair clinging to my face. "I saw Ethan and Liam."
David closed the front door slowly, a deep sigh escaping his lips. The look on his face broke my heart all over again—it was the familiar look of exhaustion, of a man dealing with a broken woman who had finally lost her grip on reality.
"Eleanor," he said gently, placing a cautious hand on my shoulder. "We've talked about this. The anniversaries are always hard. Year seven is—"
"I am not having a breakdown!" I shouted, pulling away from his touch. "Listen to me! Two boys came into a diner downtown. They are twelve years old. David, they don't just resemble our boys—they are identical. Ethan's freckle above his eyebrow. Liam's habit of chewing his lip. Everything!"
David's expression hardened slightly. "Eleanor, millions of children share similar traits. It's a tragedy, but your mind is playing tricks on you because you're lonely—"
"They reacted to our last name!" I screamed, my voice shaking the quiet house. "When I told them my name was Eleanor Vance, the older one looked terrified. He recognized the name, David!"
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David went entirely still. The dismissive, comforting expression vanished from his face, replaced by a sudden, stark rigidity. He dropped his gaze to the floor, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of his entryway table.
"David?" I whispered, my blood turning to ice. "Why aren't you arguing with me?"
