Beneath another name

The first lie Samantha Cross ever told was that she didn't remember.

She was fifteen when the fire devoured her parents and everything she knew. The officials called it an accident. She knew better. But when the investigators asked her what happened, her lips barely moved.

"I don't remember."

It was easier than the truth.

The diner smelled like burnt coffee and fried regret. Sam pushed open the door, and a little brass bell overhead jingled weakly, as if it, too, was tired of existing. The booths were mostly empty. A trucker hunched over pancakes at the counter. A waitress wiped down a table near the window, eyes glazed with boredom.

The man she was here to meet sat in the farthest booth, tucked into the shadows. She'd memorized his face from the file. Paul Renner. Freelance info broker. Sold truths like drugs-quietly, to those who could afford the price.

He didn't rise when she approached. Just looked up, like he'd been expecting her for hours.

"You're late," he said.

"I'm right on time," Sam replied, slipping into the seat across from him. Her voice was even, neutral, every syllable carefully measured.

He studied her. "You don't look like a woman haunted by secrets."

"That's the trick."

Paul smiled faintly. "Well then. Let's get to it."

He reached under the table and placed a manila folder between them. He didn't slide it toward her. Just left it there. Like a threat.

Sam didn't reach for it. She reached for her coffee instead, which the waitress had set down without asking. Black. Scalding. She didn't flinch as she took a sip.

Paul leaned in. "The past has sharp teeth. You sure you're ready to be bitten?"

"I asked for a name," she said. "Not a fortune cookie."

He chuckled. "Touché."

Outside, rain slicked the sidewalk, casting the city in a mirrored haze. Neon signs from the bodega next door flashed red and green across the window. The glow made Paul look like something half-formed, something not quite real.

"You don't get it," he said, tone shifting. "This isn't just a name. It's your name."

Sam froze. Her fingers tightened around the ceramic mug.

"What did you say?"

He nudged the folder forward. This time, she took it.

The paper inside felt heavier than it should've. She opened it slowly. There was a photograph on top: grainy, taken from a distance. A girl, barely a teenager, soot on her cheeks, eyes wide with terror.

The caption underneath was typed:

Rachel Monroe – Age 15 – Survivor, Monroe House Fire

Her breath caught. The world tilted, slightly, like the floor wasn't quite solid anymore.

She hadn't seen that face in years.

"You're mistaken," she said.

"No, Paul said. "You're mistaken. About how buried your past really is."

Sam snapped the folder shut.

"Where did you get this?"

He just smiled. "I know where the cracks are, Samantha. I found what leaked through."

"You're bluffing."

"If I was, you wouldn't be here."

He stood, tugged on his coat, and tossed a few bills on the table. "Someone else is looking into this, too. I figured I'd give you a head start. Professional courtesy."

"Who?"

But he was already walking away.

She sat alone in the booth for a long time after he left. Rain pelted the windows in a rhythmic hush. Her fingers trembled as she reopened the folder, slower this time.

Articles yellowed with age. Police reports, most redacted. Scrawled notes in the margins. At the bottom, a name:

Sheriff Marcus Dade

She stared at it. Felt the echo of the past, heavy and metallic in her chest.

He was supposed to be dead.

Back in her apartment, Sam sat on the floor of her living room with the folder spread in front of her. Her walls were lined with bookshelves. Not for show-she read them all. Crime. History. Journalism. Memoirs. Lies wrapped in truth and truths disguised as fiction.

Outside, the city roared and breathed and lived. Inside, she felt like a statue-still and cold.

She pulled a photo from the folder. A younger version of her, holding a stuffed rabbit in front of a burnt house. Ash covered her clothes. Her eyes were too old for fifteen.

She hadn't seen that rabbit in over a decade.

She tossed the photo aside and scanned the rest.

The fire. The sheriff. The missing evidence.

Rachel Monroe's life had ended that night.

And Samantha Cross had risen in her place.

She didn't sleep. Not really. Just lay on the couch with her arm over her eyes, letting fragments of memory bleed through.

Smoke. Screaming. Footsteps. A hand over her mouth. Her mother's voice-just once-before it vanished into the blaze.

And then nothing.

The next morning, Sam walked into the Manhattan office of The Herald, where she worked as a senior investigative reporter. She wore her armor: black slacks, navy blouse, low heels. Hair in a tight bun. No makeup. No smile.

Her editor, Gloria Martinez, waved her into her glass-walled office.

"You're late," Gloria said.

"You're the second person to tell me that in twelve hours."

"Then maybe it's true."

Sam dropped into a chair. "What do you have for me?"

Gloria tapped her tablet. "Someone anonymous sent us a tip about embezzlement in Hartwood County, Georgia. Mayor. Sheriff. Whole crew's dirty, supposedly."

Sam didn't move, but her pulse spiked.

Hartwood County.

She hadn't heard that name out loud in fifteen years.

"Why me?" she asked, feigning casual interest.

"You know the South," Gloria said. "You don't spook easily. And let's be honest-you're our best bloodhound."

Sam stared at her hands. They didn't shake.

"I'll take it."

That night, Sam booked a flight.

She didn't pack much. Just a duffel bag and a laptop. And the folder.

She stood in front of her mirror before leaving. Stared at herself. At Samantha Cross.

Then she whispered the name she hadn't said aloud in fifteen years.

"Rachel."

It felt like glass in her throat.

She didn't know who she'd be when she came back.