Chapter 10 - The Interrogation of Ghosts
At 8:45 that evening, Claire sat in a sterile, brightly lit interview room inside the Connecticut State Police Troop H Headquarters in Hartford.
A thick wool navy blanket was draped across her shoulders.
Her feet were wrapped in white sterile gauze applied by the emergency medical technicians forty minutes earlier.
In front of her sat a paper cup of warm, black coffee she hadn't touched.
Through the soundproof glass window on the far wall, Claire could see Anna sitting in an identical interview room across the hall.
Anna was sitting with her head buried in her folded arms on the table, a female victim advocate gently rubbing her back.
Beside the door stood two detectives from the Major Crimes Division and an assistant regional prosecutor wearing an unbuttoned trench coat.
Trooper Marcus Reynolds entered the room, carrying a thick legal pad and an evidence bag containing Claire’s damp driver's license.
He sat down across from her, his expression grim and exhausted.
“The fire at Dr. Vance’s clinic has been brought under control by the local volunteer fire departments,” Reynolds said quietly.
Claire’s hands tightened around the paper coffee cup.
“Did they find Dr. Vance?”
Reynolds lowered his eyes for a moment before looking back up.
“The medical examiner recovered his body from the basement ruins twenty minutes ago.”
“The cause of death was blunt force trauma to the cranium, sustained before the fire consumed the primary structural timbers.”
A single, scalding tear rolled down Claire’s cheek.
The old doctor had saved their lives.
He had stood between his daughter and a monster with nothing more than an iron bar.
“What about the blood samples?” Claire asked, her voice cracking.
“The state forensic toxicology lab in Meriden took custody of the three vials at nine o'clock,” Reynolds said.
“Because of the homicide declaration, the state toxicologist put the samples into an emergency gas chromatography-mass spectrometry run.”
“We’ll have the preliminary chemical profile within two hours.”
The door to the interview room opened softly.
A tall, sharp-featured woman in a tailored charcoal suit walked in, carrying a thin leather briefcase.
She wore a gold badge pinned to her lapel identifying her as Special Agent Evelyn Cross from the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s Financial Crimes and Fugitive Task Force.
She pulled out a chair beside Trooper Reynolds and sat down without ceremony.
“Mrs. Morgan,” Agent Cross began, her voice crisp, neutral, and razor-sharp.
“I’ve been tracking Julian Morgan across four states for the past fourteen months.”
Claire stared at the federal agent, her mind spinning.
“You knew who he was?”
“We knew him under six different aliases,” Agent Cross replied, opening her briefcase and extracting a thick criminal profile dossier.
“Julian Vance Morgan was born at St. Jude’s Hospital in Boston thirty-four years ago, fourteen minutes after Michael Morgan.”
“The mother died during childbirth from massive hemorrhaging.”
“The father, Arthur Morgan Senior, was a ruthless corporate financier on the verge of bankruptcy.”
“He couldn't manage two infants alone.”
“He placed Julian with an adoption agency in Syracuse, kept Michael to inherit the family trust, and legally sealed the birth records under a non-disclosure probate order.”
Claire leaned forward, her chest aching with the monstrous reality of her husband’s family history.
“Michael never knew?”
“Michael didn't find out until six months ago,” Agent Cross said, pointing to a photograph of Julian taken during an arrest in Philadelphia.
“Julian was arrested in 2024 for a ninety-million-dollar corporate identity takeover in Delaware.”
“While serving his term, an ancestral DNA database matched him to Michael’s public profile in a New England business journal.”
“When Julian was paroled in early 2026, he didn't seek out reconciliation.”
“He spent three months studying Michael’s daily schedule, his financial accounts, his two marriages, and his medical vulnerabilities.”
Claire’s voice dropped to a cold whisper.
“Julian didn't just stumble upon Michael’s double life.”
“He used it as leverage.”
“Precisely,” Agent Cross agreed.
“Julian knew that Michael would pay millions to prevent you and Anna from discovering each other.”
“Michael transferred nearly three million dollars into Julian’s shell accounts over sixty days.”
“Julian had already drained both corporate reserve funds, forged Michael’s digital signature on commercial loan guarantees, and prepared the ground for a complete identity swap.”
Agent Cross leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table.
“Julian’s fatal mistake was underestimating Michael’s physical frailty.”
“When Michael collapsed three weeks ago, Julian had to accelerate his timetable by nearly two months.”
“He had to step into Michael’s shoes before the banks realized the primary account holder was deceased.”
“And he had to eliminate you and Anna to claim the eight million dollars in supplemental life insurance policies he had activated using Michael’s stolen credentials.”
Trooper Reynolds’ radio buzzed on the table.
He picked it up, pressed it to his ear, listened for ten seconds, and his face hardened into stone.
“Understood,” Reynolds said into the receiver, setting the radio down.
He looked at Agent Cross, then directly at Claire.
“The State Police found Michael’s black SUV twenty minutes ago.”
Claire’s heart stopped.
“Where?”
“Abandoned in the long-term parking structure at Bradley International Airport,” Reynolds said grimly.
“The vehicle was wiped clean of prints.”
“The shattered driver’s side window was taped over with plastic.”
Agent Cross stood up immediately, her phone already in her hand.
“Did he clear TSA?”
“No,” Reynolds answered, checking the notes on his pad.
“Airport security cameras captured him walking out of the terminal five minutes after parking.”
“He didn't board a commercial airliner.”
“He boarded a private charter jet registered to an offshore holding corporation at the private general aviation terminal.”
“The flight plan was filed thirty minutes ago.”
Claire stood up, the wool blanket falling from her bare, bandaged shoulders.
“Where is the flight going?” Claire demanded.
Agent Cross looked at her phone screen, her jaw tightening with furious resolve.
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“The flight was cleared for a private airstrip in the Bahamas.”
“The pilot just initiated taxi procedures on Runway Three.”
