The rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows of Alex Thorne’s penthouse apartment in downtown Chicago, a gray curtain that blurred the city lights into smears of neon. He paced the polished hardwood floor, phone clutched in his hand like a lifeline. The call from Detective Ramirez had come an hour ago, shattering the fragile peace of his evening.
“Mr. Thorne, we’ve got a situation. A man down here at the 18th precinct claiming to be you. Alexander Edward Thorne. Same birthdate, same physical description. He was picked up for suspected embezzlement from a rival firm. Can you come in to verify?”
Alex had chuckled at first, the sound hollow even to his own ears. Identity theft was something that happened to other people—marks in phishing scams or careless data breaches. Not to him, a vice president at Sterling Capital Partners, with biometric locks on his accounts and a life built brick by verifiable brick over fifteen years in the Windy City. “Sure, Detective. Be there in twenty.”
Now, as he shrugged on his Burberry trench coat and grabbed his keys, a faint unease stirred in his chest. What if this imposter had gotten hold of his Social Security number, his passport scans? He pushed the thought aside, stepping into the elevator that whisked him down to the garage.
The precinct was a hive of fluorescent buzz and stale coffee. Ramirez, a stocky man with a mustache like a broom bristle, met him in the lobby. “This way. He’s in holding. Looks just like you, Mr. Thorne. Spitting image.”
Alex followed, heart rate ticking up. Through the one-way mirror, he saw the man. Cuffed to the table, head bowed over a cup of water, but when he looked up—straight at the glass, as if sensing him—Alex froze. Dark hair cropped short, sharp jaw shadowed with stubble, piercing blue eyes under heavy brows. Mid-forties, same as him. The same height, build, even the slight crook in the nose from a childhood fall.
“That’s not me,” Alex said flatly, though his voice lacked conviction.
The man—impostor—leaned forward. “Tell him I’m the real one, Detective. Five years ago, boating accident on Lake Michigan. Presumed dead. This guy’s been living my life.”
Ramirez glanced at Alex. “Your prints are on file, clean. His match old records from the ’90s. But we’re running DNA.”
“Do it,” Alex snapped. “Fast.”
Back home, sleep was a distant dream. Alex tossed on silk sheets, mind replaying the face. Who was this ghost? He booted up his laptop, searching ‘Alex Thorne missing.’ Nothing. But ‘boating accident Lake Michigan 2018’ brought up a small article: Local banker presumed drowned after solo fishing trip. Body never recovered. No photo, but the name—Alexander Thorne.
His hands trembled as he dialed his sister, Laura, in Milwaukee.
“Alex? It’s late.”
“Laura, listen. Police called. Some guy claiming he’s me, says he had an accident five years ago.”
Silence stretched, broken by a gasp. “The memorial… we held one after you vanished. Then, months later, you—you showed up at my door, looking dazed, saying you washed ashore in Indiana, lost your ID. We believed you.”
Alex’s throat tightened. “Because it was me. Remember the summer of ’92? Dad’s old Chevy, the flat tire on Route 66?”
“You told me that. But… God, Alex, what if—”
He hung up, pulse thundering. Coincidences. Had to be.
The next morning, Alex called in sick, first time in years. He pored over his documents: birth certificate, driver’s license, diplomas—all pristine. But a nagging itch led him to ancestry sites. Alexander Edward Thorne, born 1979, Evanston Hospital. Parents deceased, one sibling: Laura Marie Thorne.
No mention of twins. No gaps.
At the station that afternoon, Ramirez waved him into an interview room. The impostor sat straighter, eyes locking on Alex like a predator.
“Sit,” Ramirez said.
Alex did, glaring. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m you, idiot. Or the you I used to be. Alex Thorne. Grew up in Evanston, Little League pitcher, University of Illinois econ grad. Worked at First National until the accident.”
Details clicked, too many. “Lucky guesses. Internet.”
The man laughed, low and bitter. “Ask me about Mom’s locket. The one with our baby pictures. Inside, engraved ‘My boys.’ Plural.”
Alex recoiled. His mother had given him a locket, but he’d lost it years ago. ‘My boy.’ Singular.
“You’re insane. Dangerous.”
“Am I? Check the family cabin. Up in Door County. There’s a box under the floorboards. Proof.”
Released on bail—impostor, not Alex—pending DNA. Alex drove north that night, storm chasing him across state lines.
The cabin loomed dark against pines, key under the mat as always. Flashlight beam cut shadows. Kitchen, living room—dusty relics. Bedroom floorboards creaked. Under the third one, a metal box.
Inside: faded photos. Two boys, identical, arms around each other. Baseball uniforms. Back: ‘Alex & Jason, 1988.’
Jason?
More: hospital records. Twins. Jason given up at birth? No— adoption papers false. A newspaper clipping: ‘Twin Brothers Reunited After 20 Years.’ But Alex remembered no brother.
Head spinning, he found an old camcorder. Battery dead, but plugged in, it whirred. Tape labeled ‘Thorne Twins, Summer ’98.’
Grainy footage: young men, mirror images, laughing on the dock. Lake Michigan sparkling. “Race you to the buoy, bro!” one yelled—voice like Alex’s.
Argument. Jealousy over a girl. Shove. Splash. No. The camera shakes.
Alex—the one on screen—reaches, but the other grabs him, holds under. Bubbles. Limp body hauled in, wallet extracted. “Sorry, Alex. Your life looks better.”
The killer drags the body, dumps it. Cuts to him in mirror, practicing smile. “I’m Alex Thorne now.”
Screen fades.
Alex—no, Jason—dropped the camera. Memories crashed: the boat, rage, drowning his twin. Amnesia from guilt, pieced a life from scraps. Five years of stolen existence.
Phone buzzed. Laura: “DNA back. He’s the match. Who are you?”
Sirens in distance. Impostor—no, real Alex—had confessed nothing, but truth freed him.
Jason stared at his reflection, fractured in the window glass. Not Alex. Never was.
He walked into the woods, rain washing face, ending where it began.