I stared at the woman in the mirror, brushing my teeth with mechanical precision. Same dark hair falling in waves to my shoulders, same hazel eyes that caught the morning light just so, same faint scar on my chin from a childhood fall—or so I thought. But lately, that reflection felt like a stranger’s. It started small. A credit card statement with charges for a vacation to Paris I never took. An email from a jeweler confirming a diamond necklace purchase, engraved ‘To Elena, forever yours – M.’ Who the hell was M.? I had no boyfriend, no husband, no one. My name is Clara Hayes, 32, graphic designer in a quiet Chicago suburb. Or at least, that’s what my driver’s license said.

I crumpled the statement and shoved it into my bag. Work awaited, a distraction from the creeping unease. At the office, my cubicle felt alien too. Photos on my desk: me smiling with colleagues at last year’s holiday party. But I didn’t remember the party. ‘Hey, Clara, you okay?’ asked Tom from accounting, his brow furrowed. ‘You look like you saw a ghost.’ I forced a smile. ‘Just a bad night’s sleep.’ Lies piled up like unpaid bills.

That evening, I dug deeper. Laptop open, searching ‘Clara Hayes identity theft.’ Forums full of victims: frozen accounts, ruined credit. But my bank assured me everything was fine. No fraud flags. Then, the email from the lawyer. ‘Dear Ms. Hayes, regarding the estate of your late aunt, Margaret Voss. Please contact…’ Aunt Margaret? My parents were only children. No aunts. I called the number.

‘Ms. Hayes? We’ve been trying to reach you.’ The lawyer’s voice was smooth, practiced. ‘Your aunt passed last month. Left you everything—a house in Evanston, substantial savings.’ My heart pounded. ‘I think there’s a mistake. I don’t have an aunt.’ Silence. ‘Records show otherwise. Born 1955, sisters with your mother. Come by the office tomorrow.’

Sleep evaded me. Dreams fragmented: a car crash, blood on white silk, a face screaming mine but not. I woke sweating, the scar on my chin itching. Morning came too soon. The lawyer’s office was mahogany and leather, reeking of old money. Mr. Hargrove slid documents across the desk. Birth certificates, marriage records. My mother’s sister, married to Michael Voss. Photos: a woman identical to me, younger, with the same scar. Elena Voss. No—Margaret’s daughter? The will named Elena Voss as beneficiary, but crossed out, amended to Clara Hayes.

‘Your cousin Elena disappeared five years ago,’ Hargrove said. ‘Presumed dead after a car accident. You look remarkably like her.’ Chills raced my spine. ‘I’m Clara. Always have been.’ He nodded, unconvinced. ‘DNA test if you wish. But the inheritance is yours.’ I left with copies, head spinning.

Back home, I scoured social media. Elena Voss: vibrant, married to Michael, no kids. Posts stopped abruptly five years ago. News article: ‘Heiress missing after fiery crash. Body never recovered.’ Photos matched mine perfectly. Doppelganger? I called my parents. Mom’s voice trembled. ‘Clara, honey, everything okay?’ ‘Do we have an Aunt Margaret?’ Long pause. ‘No, dear. Why?’ I hung up, doubt festering.

The anomalies multiplied. Grocery receipt for caviar and champagne—tastes I’d never acquired. A voicemail: ‘Elena, it’s Mike. We need to talk about the accident. Call me.’ Deleted instantly, but the number saved. I dialed. ‘Who is this?’ Male voice, angry. ‘Clara Hayes. You left a message for Elena.’ ‘Bullshit. Elena’s dead. Stop harassing me.’ Click.

Paranoia gripped me. Was I Elena? Impossible. My memories: college at UIUC, first job, apartment in Wrigleyville before moving here. But gaps yawned. Years fuzzy after 28. I visited the crash site, a ravine outside Evanston. Scorched earth, memorial cross weathered. ‘Elena Voss, beloved wife.’ Flowers wilted. A local bar nearby: ‘Heard of Elena Voss?’ The bartender squinted. ‘Twin of yours? Yeah, she came here with Mike. Fought a lot. Then the crash.’ ‘What fight?’ ‘Money, I think. She was loaded.’

Michael Voss. I found his address, a rundown bungalow. Heart hammering, I knocked. He opened, eyes widening. Mid-40s, rugged, haunted. ‘You.’ He grabbed my arm, pulled me inside. ‘Elena, what the fuck? You’re alive?’ ‘I’m Clara.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Clara Hayes? That’s the name on the new IDs you flashed when you moved here. Plastic surgery? Contacts? You’re Elena. My wife. You staged that crash, took off with the money.’

Room spun. ‘No. I don’t know you.’ He shoved photos: wedding, vacations. Me—her—in white lace. ‘We fought that night. You drove off drunk, angry. I reported you missing, searched. Then nothing.’ I backed away. ‘This isn’t me.’ But the scar matched a photo where Elena pointed to it, caption: ‘Battle wound from playground.’

I fled to my apartment, locked doors, pills for sleep. Dreams clearer: screeching tires, flames, a body slumped. Mine? Elena’s? Morning, I booked a DNA test at a clinic. While waiting results, I hacked—poorly—into Elena’s old email. Password guess: our anniversary? No. Wedding date from photo. Inboxes full of love notes from Mike, then accusations: ‘Where’s the money, Elena? Inheritance from your mom?’

Margaret Voss died just before crash. Elena inherited. Vanished with it. My bank? Transfers from Voss accounts, laundered. My apartment lease under Clara Hayes, but deposit from Voss Savings.

Results came: 100% match to Elena Voss reference sample from police file. I was her. But how? Memories clashed. Therapy? Hypnosis? No time. Mike called. ‘Lawyer called me. Inheritance to you—Clara. You’re playing games.’ Meet me, he said. Neutral ground: the ravine.

Dusk fell, fog rolling in. Intense, the air thick with unsaid accusations. Mike waited by the cross. ‘End this, Elena. Come home.’ ‘If I’m Elena, why don’t I remember?’ He sighed. ‘The crash. You survived, banged head. Amnesia happens. But faking death? Stealing identity? That’s you, greedy bitch.’ Words stung, familiar pangs of guilt.

We argued, voices echoing. ‘You pushed me to spend, Mike. Debts. The money was ours!’ Slip. His eyes lit. ‘See? You remember.’ I didn’t. Or did? Head throbbed.

Then, the unexpected: headlights pierced fog. A car pulled up. Out stepped Detective Ruiz, the one I reported identity theft to. ‘Hands up, both of you.’ Mike smirked. ‘Told you she’d come.’ Ruiz cuffed him. ‘Michael Voss, you’re under arrest for murder.’ What?

Confusion. ‘Elena Voss’s body was found last year, buried near here. DNA match. You killed her, assumed her life. Plastic surgery minimal, dyed hair back, contacts out. The anomalies? Subconscious slips. We monitored you since the report. The will amendment? Forged by you.’

No. Mike struggled. ‘She’s Elena! I didn’t kill anyone!’ Ruiz ignored. To me: ‘Clara Hayes doesn’t exist pre-five years ago. You murdered your cousin Elena in that crash—drunk driving fight—buried her, took her face, her life. Guilt buried deep, memories suppressed. Therapy records we found under fake name confirm dissociative episodes.’

Flash: the crash. Elena slumped, dead from impact. My hands—Clara’s—bloodied. Panic. Swapped clothes, IDs. Buried her shallow. New life. But why cousin? Mirror showed truth: we were identical twins, separated at birth. I was the poor one, she rich. Greed, jealousy.

Mike screamed as dragged away. ‘She’s Elena! I loved her!’ But he knew. Complicit? No, Ruiz said later: Mike suspected, searched, but loved the ‘new’ Elena too.

I—no, the killer—sat in cruiser, world crumbling. The reflection shattered forever. Truth too late. Inheritance mine, blood money. Ending: alone, in cell, staring at hands that stole a life. Complete, tragic.