THE WEDDING IS OFF — THAT MAN IS NOT WHO HE SAYS HE IS

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THE WEDDING IS OFF — THAT MAN IS NOT WHO HE SAYS HE IS

I slammed the photo album shut, the scent of old paper dust filling my nostrils, and told Sarah to look away.

“It’s fine,” I said, but my voice cracked, the air thick with the stale potpourri Grandma always kept. “Just…close your eyes.” But I couldn’t unclench my hands, couldn’t ignore the man in the sepia images, who was the spitting image of Mark. Younger, sure, but the same cruel set of the jaw. An old military uniform.

Then Sarah said, her voice so small, “Who’s Katherine?” and I knew, I just knew, that those letters stuffed between the pages weren’t love poems signed with a K like he always sends me. My palms were sweaty, the silence deafening.

Only now Grandma is at the door again, saying Mark’s here to help her fix that leaky faucet he was here already yesterday, then I swear to God I saw him.

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THE WEDDING IS OFF — THAT MAN IS NOT WHO HE SAYS HE IS

I swallowed hard, the fear a cold knot in my stomach. I forced a smile, trying to sound casual as I pushed myself up from the armchair. “Tell him I’ll be right there,” I said to Grandma, my voice trembling despite my best efforts. As soon as she was gone, Sarah clutched my arm. “Don’t,” she pleaded, her eyes wide with terror. “Don’t go down there.”

I knew what she was thinking. The man in the photos. The letters. The coincidence. I knew I had to confront him. I walked slowly to the front door, the sepia images of a smiling man in military uniform flashing behind my eyelids with every step.

When I opened the door, there he was. Mark. Or whoever he was. He stood there, a toolbox at his feet, a familiar grin on his face. “Hey,” he said, “your grandma says this faucet is giving her a headache. Let’s get it fixed.” His eyes flicked past me, as if scanning the interior of the house.

“Mark,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady. “Come inside. We need to talk.”

He hesitated for a moment, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face before it returned to the familiar mask. He followed me inside. I led him to the living room, where I’d scattered the old photo album and the letters.

He saw it. The pictures. He stopped cold. His face went white, but he recovered quickly, his eyes narrowed and his voice smooth. “What is this?” he asked, feigning confusion.

“I know who you are,” I said, my voice gaining strength with each word. “I know you’re not who you say you are. Who is Katherine?”

He took a step back, then another, a small bead of sweat trailing down his temple. He reached for the toolbox, but I had already started to back away from him. I looked around for a weapon.

I realized it wasn’t Katherine, the letters were not for a woman named Katherine, but it was for a man named Katherine. Katherine, who, in his military uniform, was the lover of the man in the old photos.

“You’re the same man,” I whispered, stepping back. “You’re the same man, and he died, didn’t he?”

He finally snapped. The smile was gone. The mask had shattered. He lunged. But I was ready. Sarah ran in behind me, pulling out the only thing she could find, my grandmother’s antique poker.

He didn’t expect it. He fell backward. He looked surprised, then angry, then finally, a look of understanding, and relief, like he was glad it was over.

I didn’t need to say another word.