Chapter 3 Olivia
My body is convulsing. Or rather, something is convulsing my body. I’m being shaken by the shoulder. I twist away from the stranger’s hand, sitting upright, suddenly awake. Two men are beside my bed.
One speaks. “Sorry, ma’am. We need to speak with you.”
I push my greasy hair off my face. I haven’t washed it in days.
I had managed to stand up late last night, unstick the pads on my skin linking me to the bedside machine, and hobble to the shared bathroom in the corridor.
I had looked terrible — gray, drawn, free of make-up, my hair lank and lifeless.
I’m fully aware of how wretched I must look to these people after another night of restless sleep.
They’re police officers, both young, male.
The one who was shaking me is around my age, maybe a couple of years older.
Very short cropped dark hair, tan skin, friendly features, good-looking.
A little stocky, probably no taller than my five-foot-nine frame.
Not tall, like Jake. The other guy is a lot younger, skinny, his face covered in acne. He’s holding a notepad and pen.
“I’m Detective Adam Banks, and this is my trainee, Officer Gary Phelps,” says the older one, sitting beside me. “We need to have a conversation with you to clear up your identity. Are you good to speak with us now, ma’am?”
I straighten up, plumping a pillow behind me. “Sure, I guess. Please call me Olivia, or Liv.”
Detective Banks looks skeptical. “Thank you, ma’am,” he replies, ignoring my request. “We’re here because we had a complaint from a Burt Grainger, who said he received a call from a nurse here saying that you claim to be his deceased daughter, Olivia.
We verified this with the nurse practitioner this morning.
He confirmed this story, and that you have no ID to corroborate your claim. Is this correct?”
“Yes. It’s correct that I’m saying I’m Olivia Grainger, and it’s also correct that I am Olivia Grainger.
Also, that I have no ID to prove it — I came here with nothing.
My purse must still be at the quarry lake, I guess.
” I shrug. “But it’s not correct to say that Olivia Grainger is deceased.
Because I’m her, I’m Burt and Tilly’s daughter, and as you can see, I’m very much alive.
I have absolutely no idea why they would say I died as a child — clearly I didn’t.
I’m right here, always have been. I’ve never been away for a long period, never gone missing, never lived anywhere but Wilmington.
It makes no sense that they would say this.
Or that Jake says he hasn’t seen me since we were kids.
We live together — we’re engaged. It’s so crazy .
. .” I can’t go on. I don’t want to break down again in front of these cops.
“Okay, ma’am. I understand you’re upset.
” The detective’s voice is low, soft. “Here’s the thing.
We went to the quarry lake this morning — which, by the way, is private property.
There was no sign of anybody’s personal possessions.
The man you say is your fiancé, Jake Johnson, does not have your purse or your ID — we called him, too.
He told us about the accident at the same quarry lake when he was twelve years old, when young Liv Grainger fell from the cliff and died.
He was the only other person there. We’ve checked his story, and it matches the police and city records.
Olivia Grainger died at that lake sixteen years ago.
Her body is buried in Wilton Cemetery, close to the Graingers’ former family home.
“So tell me, ma’am.” He leans in. “Why are you pretending to be Olivia Grainger? Who are you, really?”
An unwanted tear slips down my cheek. I brush it aside with the heel of my hand.
“I. Am. Olivia. Grainger. I can’t explain my family’s response, nor Jake’s.
I know who I am. I’m not lying. Why would I lie?
It’s not like it would be an effective scam.
People who steal identities do it secretly, without alerting anybody.
Why would anybody publicly claim to be a dead twelve-year-old? ”
Detective Banks shakes his head while his young trainee scribbles furious notes, one eyebrow quirked.
“Ma’am, I have no idea. But this is the claim you’re making.
The doctor told us it could potentially be .
. . some kind of personality disorder. A neurological condition caused by your fall.
Except that you had no identifiable head injury.
I’m told you’ll be undergoing a psych eval soon.
Okay, then, next question — where do you live?
Assuming you’re, erm, remembering wrongly about who you are, if we can take you home, we can see if there’s ID and correspondence at your home that will tell us more. ”
“I live with Jake Johnson. In the house we bought together last year — 878 Bradley Road. Near the creek. But if Jake is saying he doesn’t live with me . . .” I shake my head, trying not to let my face crumple.
Could the doctor be right? Am I really somebody else? Do I live somewhere else?
No.
I am Liv Grainger.
I remember everything about my life.
My wonderful, blessed life.
Detective Banks twists his mouth. “Yeah, Mr. Johnson lives in an oceanfront condo on Wrightsville Beach. He’s been there three years, he said.
We can visit that Bradley Road address to double-check.
But I’ll be honest, ma’am. I think we’ll find somebody else living there.
” He hesitates. “You told hospital staff you’re self-employed, but there’s no record of an interior design business called Living Inc.
registered, and no online presence. Is that the correct name? ”
I nod, miserable. I can’t look him in the eye. “The website is www.livinginc.com.”
Detective Banks nods toward his trainee, who taps something into his iPhone. The younger officer frowns, giving Detective Banks a tiny shake of his head, shows his mentor the screen.
“That domain name is available for sale,” Detective Banks tells me. “Okay, how about your cell number? You know that by heart? Maybe we can try calling it.”
“Sure. 910-555-3554.”
Officer Phelps taps at his phone again and holds it to his ear.
“Hello . . . this is Officer Gary Phelps with Wilmington PD. May I ask whose cellphone this is? We’re trying to ID the victim of an accident .
. . No, sir, nothing wrong. May I take your name?
. . . And you’ve had this number for how long?
. . . Thank you, sir. That’s all I need.
Thanks for your time, have a great day.” He hangs up.
“Number belongs to a Fred Crocker, he’s had it at least seven years. ”
I push out a breath. “You definitely dialed 555-3554?”
Officer Phelps checks his phone. “Yes, ma’am.”
I bristle. “I’d really love it if you guys would stop calling me ‘ma’am’. Makes me feel ancient. Can you please call me Liv, even if you don’t believe I’m her?”
Detective Banks ignores me. “Is there anybody else who you can think of who could identify you. Some other way to show us who you are?”
“I can try other friends, but if Jake and my family don’t know who I am . . . Plus I don’t have any of their numbers memorized — I’d need my phone.” I bite my lip. “Oh, what about social media? I’m Liv Grainger on Facebook and Instagram. And Living Inc. has a Facebook company page.”
“We already checked those,” Detective Banks replies. “There are some Liv and Olivia Graingers on social media, but none living in the area, and nobody who looks like you. You’d be pretty easy to identify, visually speaking.”
What does that mean?
He notices my frown but continues smoothly, “Clearly you’re not Liv Grainger, but it also seems to me you genuinely believe your story.
You’re not deliberately lying. Hopefully the psych eval will tell us more.
We may have to treat you as . . . an amnesiac, and hold a press conference with your photo.
We could potentially say you can’t remember who you are, and ask people to come forward if they recognize you.
” He pauses for a moment, obviously thinking it through.
“We can also circulate your photo on social media, since many of your real friends will be on those platforms. We wouldn’t be able to say you think you’re Liv Grainger, though.
Many people will remember that tragedy and accuse you of lying, of being a scammer. ”
“Like my parents.”
“Mr. Grainger thinks you are, yes. But Mrs. Grainger . . . well, she told us it could be a miracle. I understand she’s become a very religious woman since her daughter’s death.”
Religious? Mom?
“Wow. Okay. Well, maybe she’d believe me.
If I could just see her? I mean, I look exactly like her daughter, just grown up.
She’d recognize me, even if she thinks she hasn’t seen me for years.
I have the same scar on my eyebrow, from falling into a coffee table at Jake’s house when we were ten.
Ooh,” I sit upright, excited. “DNA! We could have a test, right? We could find out who I am that way — prove I’m related to the Graingers. ”
Detective Banks nods slowly. “We could see if the Graingers would be willing to take a DNA test. Even if not, we can do a test on you to see if it throws up any name in the system. Fingerprints too. Even take a mold of your teeth and compare that to dental records, if it comes to that.” He nods to his young colleague, who scribbles more on the notepad.
“But in the meantime there’s the problem of what to do with you. You have nowhere to go. We’ll check the address you gave us, but I’m not optimistic that’s your home. And there’s the issue of how to pay your hospital bill.”
“Oh, crap.” I rub the heels of my hands against my eyes. “I’m on Jake’s insurance. Have been ever since I became self-employed.”
“Well, you’re not, as he doesn’t know you.
You’re about to get a sizeable bill that I’m guessing you have no means of paying.
Since you don’t know who you are or where you live, we can’t trace any bank account or credit cards.
” He sighs as the young officer continues to scribble away in his notebook.
“We can’t let you go out into the community until we know who you are. You have no money, home, or income. You wouldn’t even be able to get a job. There’s no Social Security under the name you’re claiming.” His brown eyes meet mine. “One way or another, we have to figure out who you really are.”
I’m Liv Grainger.
But, crap, he’s right. In this nightmarish version of my world, I don’t exist. I have no money.
No health insurance. No home. No business.
No family or friends. No ID, no phone. Not even clothes.
If my family and Jake don’t come to their senses, outside this hospital, I’ll be a beggar on the street. A naked one.
But there’s one thing I’m sure of.
I. Am. Liv Grainger.