Chapter 22 #2
So Simon followed him, only managing to yell, “It’s okay, I’ll be right back,” at Chris before the officer led him down several hallways and into a small office with a single desk and a computer.
As he left, Simon remained alone for mere seconds before another woman came in and sat down behind the computer.
“Mr. Montague, is it?” she said, checking the screen and then him.
“Yes?” He coughed, adjusting his tone to a more self-assured one. “Yes.”
“We’re having some trouble with your passport. Any idea as to why?”
Simon pressed his lips together. Weren’t they supposed to solve the problem? “No clue. I thought you might have an idea, given you’re working at the airport, checking passports, and all that.” He couldn’t help adding a sarcastic smile at the end. God, Chris really was rubbing off on him.
“So you wouldn’t find it at all strange if I told you you were deceased.”
“Not at all,” he blurted out before he could catch himself.
The woman raised her eyebrows.
“I mean—what? No, that has to be a mistake.” Shit. He could’ve known that was coming, if Everett pulled off his scheme. So there was some official paperwork announcing him dead, not just Everett’s empty words.
“Not according to the death certificate in our database.”
Cold sweat dripped down Simon’s spine. Thinking about Everett’s schemes was one thing, but hearing there was proof of his death—even though he knew it was false—was another. He was still here, and yet he felt like he had one foot in the grave already.
“Are you sure you didn’t mistake me for another Simon Montague?” he tried.
The woman pursed her lips and looked at the computer screen. “Date of birth?”
He told her.
“Mother’s name?”
“Diana.”
“Grandmother’s name on your father’s side?”
He had to think about it for a moment—she passed when he was little. “Marjorie.”
“Last name of your first employer?”
“You mean back for summer work? In college?”
She stared at him, her eyebrows lowered.
Fuck, if he remembered. “Zab-something?”
She lightly shook her head as she continued to read off the screen, like a teacher unimpressed with her student’s lack of knowledge. “Your wife’s name?”
“Shanna O’Connell,” he shot out, happy to be confident about one of the answers.
The woman squinted at him.
“Look, ma’am,” he said. “There’s clearly been some glitch in the database.
That can happen—in fact, I know very well.
CEO of Aries Tech, and all that. So, if we can wrap this up, I’ll let this little misunderstanding slide, and we can both go our separate ways.
I won’t even request to be compensated in miles. ”
“Sir.” She clasped her hands on the desk. “Simon Montague, the CEO of Aries Tech, who you claim to be, is not married. Or should I say, he never married before his death.”
“No.” Simon shook his head, letting out a laugh of disbelief. “I got married. In Vegas. Three years ago. I saw the certificate!”
She raised an eyebrow.
Okay, that probably wasn’t the best way to put it. But he couldn’t exactly tell her he didn’t remember it.
“There’s no marriage entered in the records.”
The room spun in front of his eyes. It was real, still—Shanna believed it, and he believed she didn’t falsify those documents. But it was Vegas. Who knew how legitimate that chapel was. Or maybe, even if it was, they forgot to submit the documents.
“I can still prove I’m me,” he said. “Ask me something about my company. You want the finances? Go ahead. I can recite the balance sheets, the income, expenses …”
She sighed, scrolling with her mouse. “Last three quarters?”
He opened his mouth, ready to recite the numbers, when he realized his big mistake. He smiled apologetically. “Any chance we could do three years ago, instead? I mean, it will be an even better proof, right?”
“All right, Mr. Montague.” She pronounced the name with mild sarcasm. “It’s time for you to have a think.” She made a short call, mumbling something about Lucy coming over for a case.
Simon gripped the armrests of his chair.
Upon a knock, the woman got up and went to talk with someone out in the hallway. Through the door left ajar, Simon made out every few words. His interrogator said something about the face on the passport matching, and the other voice—Lucy, presumably—suggested a glitch.
Simon let out a breath of relief. Yes! If they believed he was him, they could solve this whole problem for him. He could tell them the truth. Bring in the police, the FBI, hell, whoever wanted to join on a witch hunt for Everett—
“But what he says doesn’t make sense,” the woman muttered. “And he could have had plastic surgery to take the spot of the deceased.”
No, no, no. Simon bit his lip. There had to be some kind of proof of him being him—DNA, maybe—but how long would that take?
He didn’t have the time. Not against Everett’s scheme, and not against Shanna’s curse.
The door opened. The mysterious Lucy had black hair, pulled back in a smooth bun, and a tattoo of a skull with roses peeking out from behind the short sleeves of her blue uniform. She gestured to Simon. “Come with me, sir.”
Based on her scowl, Simon guessed the other interrogator had successfully convinced her that Simon was either a brilliant fraud or a complete lunatic.
So, off he went again to another small room down the hallway with a white table and a white chair but no computer.
“Wait here, please,” Lucy said, closing the door behind him.
Simon sat, drumming his fingers on the table.
After five minutes, he stood and paced around.
After ten more minutes, he sat back down.
There was a clock on the wall but nothing else in the room—not even one of those two-sided mirrors he could yell at.
Only that damn clock that kept ticking, the movement of the hands soon beginning to match the beat of his heart.
After one hour, Lucy finally came back. She asked him if he’d changed his mind and was ready to talk. Claiming he wasn’t lying about anything didn’t impress her too much, and she left again.
Should he start lying? Maybe say he picked up a discarded passport on the street, just to make them happy?
But the point wasn’t in making the officers happy. It was in letting him go—as soon as possible. He didn’t have this much time.
He told Shanna he’d be back as soon as he could.
Two more hours passed. He was taken back into the other room for another round of questioning. Perhaps they thought he’d be more truthful with them after a few hours on that damn uncomfortable chair.
“Any tattoos?” the woman asked.
“Just this—” He was halfway to raising the hand where his bond tattoo used to be. “No. None.”
And didn’t they make him strip down to prove there were none.
Six hours. They didn’t give him any drink or food. Didn’t let him go to the toilet. It was a straight up police interrogation, like he was a murder suspect.
And after six hours, as he stared at the blank walls and the blank table, Simon was starting to think he was about to become one. Whichever unlucky soul stepped through that door first …
Something scratched at the door. The knob rotated, then stopped.
Simon raised his head from the desk.
After more scratching at the lock from the outside, the door opened, revealing a hunched-down Chris. “Come on. Let’s go!” she whispered, urging him with her hands.
He rushed to the door. “What happened?”
“I went through the express training to become airport security so I can clear your name.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m breaking you out, what do you think?”
“But I shouldn’t—”
“Do you want to rot in here, or not?”
Well, officially, he was dead. How much worse could it get?
He followed Chris down the hallway, where she grabbed a janitor’s uniform, left discarded on their trolley, and threw it at Simon.
“I know you told me not to do more crime,” she said.
“This one time, I might let it pass. We have work to do.” He hastily put on the gray onesie.
“Yeah, I thought so. What exactly happened?”
“Everett,” Simon grumbled. “He was very thorough. According to their system, I’m dead.”
“How did he do that?”
“I don’t know.” Simon straightened out his collar. “But we’re going to find out.”