The steering wheel felt like ice beneath my palms. My breath hitched as I stared at the jumbotron across the street, the giant LED screen flickering with the image of a nightmare. There he was—Ethan Wolfe. The sharp, arrogant tilt of his head, the way he adjusted his cufflinks with that unbearable precision, and the way he leaned in to whisper something into the ear of the woman wearing my face.
Beside me, the passenger seat was still warm. The real Ethan—or the man I believed was the real Ethan—had just vanished into the woods to lead the police away.
"No," I whispered, my voice a broken rasp against the windshield. "It’s impossible."
I looked at the screen again. The "Ethan" on television turned to the cameras, his smile as cold and polished as a shark’s. He looked healthy. He looked
