The Imposter's Game

d became

no slashing was involved. The videos were damning. A man who looked like me, driving my

op. Marco, his mechanic, corroborated it. My story ab

e. She couldn't

the harassment, the online death threats... it broke them. One afternoon, during a small community bake sale they'd i

bout it i

from the inside. If not for me, for this

d killer. Hit-and-run scumbag. They m

too far. Or maybe

ness. Then

, drenched in sweat. My hea

through a window.

ands. No prison

ock read 8:03

tched. No. I

my own. The scent of coff

flection in the mirror – younger, healthier.

ay. The day

as

was by the counter

d. I'll be there by nine-thirty.

managed, my

face. "Morning, sleepyhead. Big

rds. The sa

The Camaro. Sam

You look like you

d. M

d dream." My

my forehead. "You're a bit cl

chance. My

itting headache. A migraine, I thin

ern. "Oh, honey, that's no

el that appointment at Sam's for th

bout the car. Just rest. Call me if it gets worse

her bag and

or closed, I let

n't take the

the Camaro – mine and the spare Emily rarely used – went ins

that car today. N

mp. I replayed the accident, the accusations, the trial, my pare

p it. This t

began to settle in. I hadn't driven the car.

my pho

showed an un

d turne

y hand trembl

" The same official vo

eart

es

to come down to the access road off Highway 101, near the Richardson

ct same

ed. "No, that's

lved in a fatal hit-and-run

air. "My car... it's in my garage.

, the car is here. And it's regis

scream buildi

garage. Fumbled wi

or rum

rry red Camaro should

o

be gone? The key

up. This was something el