That should have reassured me, but it didn’t.
Over the next few days, the small inconsistencies kept coming.
She stopped putting cinnamon in her coffee, even though she had done it every morning since we met.
She pushed away a plate of mushroom pasta and said, “You know I hate mushrooms.”
Alma loved mushrooms.
Once, on our anniversary, she had made me drive 40 minutes because a restaurant had truffle risotto.
Two days later, I came home early and found her standing in front of the bathroom mirror.
Her shirt was pulled down off one shoulder.
She was tracing the outline of the lily-shaped mark with her finger.
She did not notice me.
The look on her face was not confusion.
It was recognition.
I stepped back before she saw me.
That night, Milo refused to sleep in our room.
He lay outside the guest room instead, watching the hallway.
I barely slept.
My mind kept trying to find normal explanations.
Maybe she is stressed or exhausted.
Or maybe she has an undiagnosed medical issue.
Or some kind of memory problem.
But every explanation of why my wife was acting differently failed.
The birthmark became my biggest concern.
The next morning, Alma left to buy groceries.
The moment her car turned out of the driveway, I went upstairs and opened her laptop.
The password had changed.
I tried our anniversary. It was wrong.
Her mother’s birthday was wrong, too.
Milo’s name was also rejected.
Then I decided to try her birthday.
I almost didn’t because one day, when we were setting up a joint social media account, I wanted to put her birthday as the password.
She refused and told me that it would be a “ridiculously obvious password.”
Still, I tried it, and to my surprise, the screen unlocked.
There was almost nothing on the desktop.
No work folders, vacation photos, or even the cover photo of Milo that she normally had.
There was only one folder with a small lily icon.
I clicked it, and a video window opened.
At first, I thought it was recorded footage.
Then the image shifted.
It was a live feed.
A woman sat on the couch in a dim basement room.
She was facing down and twiddling her fingers.
She lifted her head, and I stopped breathing.
I was looking at Alma or someone who looked like Alma.
She stared toward the camera without seeing me, and I could see that she definitely had my wife’s face.
If that is my wife, then who was the woman who looked just like her, currently living with me?
I shoved back from the desk so hard that the chair hit the wall.
For several seconds, I could not move.
Then a memory surfaced.
A story Alma had told me before we were married.
She said she has an identical twin sister called Ava.
They had cut contact after graduating from college.
Alma never liked discussing her.
She once said, “Ava did not want to live her own life. She was constantly obsessed with mine.”
At first, I had thought she meant ordinary sibling jealousy.
Then Alma told me Ava had tried to date two of her former boyfriends.
She copied her clothes and her style of fashion and beauty.
She spread lies to separate her from her friends so that they could befriend her.
Once, she showed up at Alma’s dorm pretending to be her and read private messages on her computer.
Their parents had spent years excusing it.
“Ava is sensitive.”
“Ava only wants to be close to you.”
“Ava is simply doing what normal twins do all the time.”
The final break came after Ava kissed Alma’s boyfriend at a party and told everyone he had confused them.
After that, they barely interacted.
They had not spoken in almost 20 years.
Ever since Alma and I got married, I have never had a word about her.
I knew right then that whoever was sleeping next to me since she came back from the retreat was not my wife.
My wife was the one stuck in a basement. What kind of evil scheme had her twin sister come up with?
I grabbed my phone and called the police. This was not something I could deal with alone.
After all, my wife was being held against her will in a basement.
The dispatcher kept telling me to slow down.
“My wife is on a live camera,” I said. “Someone took her and is impersonating her. The woman in my house is her twin sister, pretending to be my wife.”
Two officers arrived within 15 minutes.
Detective Brooks came shortly after.
I showed them the live feed, the photographs, and told them about the birthmark.
They confirmed that the video was indeed a live feed.
Detective Brooks leaned closer to the screen.
“Do you recognize the room?”
“No.”
“Do you know where Ava lives?”
“No. I didn’t even know she was alive.”
They checked the laptop’s network data while another officer searched public records.
It turned out that Ava owned a small house 40 minutes away.
The camera feed was linked to an internet connection registered at that address.
Detective Brooks turned to me.
“We are sending a team now.”
“What about Ava?”
“We wait for her.”
That hour was the longest of my life.
The officers stayed out of sight. Detective Brooks sat with me in the kitchen.
On the laptop, Alma remained curled on the sofa.
Brooks updated me.
“The team is almost there.”
“What if she’s hurt?”
“They will take care of her.”
At 3:17 p.m., Ava’s car pulled into the driveway.
She came through the door carrying grocery bags.
“Victor?” she called.
The officers stepped out.
Ava froze.
For one second, her face became completely blank.
Then she dropped the bags and ran.
She made it three steps before an officer caught her.
She screamed.
Not in fear but in rage.
“Leave me alone! Leave me alone!”
I stood in the kitchen doorway.
“Why would you do that to your twin sister, Ava?” I asked.
“I’m not Ava! I’m Alma!” She screamed.
“No, you’re not,” I replied calmly.
She stopped fighting.
Her eyes found mine.
Then she laughed.
It was Alma’s face.
But it was not Alma’s laugh.
“You finally figured it out.”
Detective Brooks read her rights.
Ava laughed.
“He didn’t even notice at first.”
I wanted to hit her.
Instead, I gripped the doorframe.
“The police are already at your house,” I said.
Her smile vanished.
For the first time, she looked afraid.
“You found her?”
“You really thought I wouldn’t?”
“You were supposed to believe I was her. To live with me. To love me.”
The words were so calm that they frightened me more than her screaming had.
“You’re insane.”
“No, she does not deserve the life she has. I do.”
She said it as if it were obvious.
“They always said she got the better life, better friends, better career, and better husband.”
“You took her because you were jealous?”
Ava’s face twisted.
“She stole everything first. I deserve what she has.”
Detective Brooks stepped between us.
“Tell us what happened at the retreat.”
Ava looked at me, not at her.
“I followed her.”
The words came out almost proudly.
