The False Mirror Read online

  Becky sniffled and blinked repeatedly, “How come I didn’t know about any of this?”

  “It was years before you were born,” he explained. “You were actually born into the Witness Protection Program and your parents’ fabricated identities.”

  “So, what you’re saying is that my entire life has been a big fat lie?” She felt her heart racing and her breathing disrupted. She let out a few shorts coughs and lowered her head, feeling Uncle Jake’s comforting hand on her back.

  “Of course not.” He rubbed her back in circular motion. “Your parents’ love was real. Your fights with Brandon around the dinner table were real. The birthday parties they threw for you, the family trips – all of those were real, and it doesn’t even matter if your last name is Mitchell or Webber.”

  “Webber?” Becky raised her head.

  Jacob sighed and bit his lips. He understood that he’d overwhelmed the young girl with all this new information. “That‘s your father’s real last name,” he eventually answered.

  “Wait, hold on, in the pictures . . .” she said, connecting the dots, “my dad was wearing a yarmulke . . . and our last name is Webber . . . They were Jewish?” Her eyes widened with surprise. “No way,” she asserted, but then her eyes interlocked with Jacob’s, and she realized that her conclusion was indeed true. “It just doesn’t make sense. Why was I raised as a Christian?”

  “It was your parents’ choice. I didn’t interfere.”

  “Interfere?” she repeated confusedly. “Just a minute, how do you know all this?” she suddenly wondered. Her father had told her that he and Jacob were distant relatives and friends from college. He’d come to visit them every year and always brought Becky a snow globe, each time from a different part of the country. The impressive collection was displayed on the top shelf in her room. She called him Uncle Jake since as far back as she could remember, even though he wasn’t really her uncle. But, considering the fact that she’d never met any other relatives beside him, to her, he was her dear uncle. “Isn’t it supposed to be a secret?”

  Jacob inhaled sharply, and his jaw clenched firmly. “So, that’s the deal,” he said, placing his big palm on her delicate shoulder, “I’m the marshal who was in charge of their relocation.”

  CHAPTER 8

  September 12, 2013. Brooklyn, New York

  After an hour of driving in silence, the Jaguar XF stopped at 1972 East 13th Street. Sharon watched her childhood home from the car window as Chris parked in front of the red brick house.

  Before they got out of the car, Chris placed his hand on top of hers and said, “Sharon, I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry, Chris.” She squeezed his hand. “It’s obvious that there’s something about our relationships that bothers you, and we should talk about it.”

  “But not right before we go in for brunch with your parents,” he replied with a self-deprecating smile.

  “You always have such bad timing,” she chuckled. “Remember when we first met? I was working on that high-profile case, the tangled serial murders affair, and all you cared about was for me to take you sightseeing in the city.”

  “It doesn’t ring a bell. You have to be more specific.”

  The perfect dimples in Sharon’s grin enhanced her natural gracefulness and made her look lovely. Chris always made her laugh, right from their first chance encounter on the red-eye flight to New York when he’d been seated next to her.

  She took off her seat belt and moved closer to him. Her face was only inches away from his. “I love you,” she whispered before she kissed him.

  “How’s the happy couple?” playfully pried Jill, Sharon’s mother, when she answered the door.

  The “happy couple” flashed an awkward smile, hoping not to disclose their short lovers’ quarrel.

  “Where’s Dad?” asked Sharon.

  “He’s working on the pancakes,” Jill winked. “Bobby!” she called, “Come say hi.”

  Bobby emerged from the kitchen, wearing an apron with a big, bold arrow and above it the words: I’m cooking with stupid.

  “Here’s my little detective,” he said endearingly and hugged his daughter.

  Sharon wondered deep in her heart how her father always managed to diminish her achievements into sounding as sweet as winning a toddler’s beauty pageant.

  “Hey, Dad,” she replied stiffly, but her arms reciprocated with a loving embrace.

  “Chris, how are you?” he asked cordially, extending his hand.

  “I’ve been fasting all week long. I heard your pancakes are famous across Brooklyn.” He shook the father’s hand.

  “What a charming boyfriend you have, Sherry,” said Bobby. “He’s making me blush.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “But if we could be a bit serious,” continued Bobby, “I have to admit that my pancakes are only a small contribution compared to the meal Jill has prepared for us today.” He put his arm around his wife’s shoulders and hugged her, so the painted arrow was now pointing at her.

  “Interesting apron you got there . . .” Chris remarked with a mischievous grin. Bobby and Jill turned their gaze to the writing on the apron and started laughing.

  “It was a gift from Sean for Mother’s Day,” explained Jill, “and actually it was meant for me,” she added with a playful smile.

  “He’s got some sense of humor, your little brother,” whispered Chris in Sharon’s ear.

  Sharon rolled her eyes. “Can you believe he’s at Stanford?” she replied.

  “Why are you still standing outside?” called Bobby while untying his apron. “Come in, come in!”

  Sharon’s parents walked briskly back into the kitchen, leaving the young couple in the foyer. Chris turned to face Sharon, gripped her delicate shoulders with both of his hands, and gave her a serious stare. He inhaled dramatically.

  “Good luck, Private Davis,” he said with an authoritative tone. “I hope you’ll pull through this. I have faith in you.” He kept looking at her, his furrowed eyebrows making him look remarkably stern, until they both burst in laughter.

  “You can be such a fool sometimes,” she said smiling and interlocked her arm with his as they entered inside.

  CHAPTER 9

  September 12, 2013. Fairland, Oklahoma

  Becky was lying on the sofa in Jacob Stanton’s one-bedroom apartment, staring at the television screen airing old sitcoms. She felt helpless and defenseless, all alone in the battlefield. She had never felt this way before. Even Uncle Jake, or whoever he was, had betrayed her. He wasn’t really her uncle, rather a federal marshal whose job had been to keep an eye on his witnesses. Nothing more. Everyone she ever loved had, in fact, lied to her. She had no one left in the world.

  She replayed in her mind, over and over, the moment when Jacob had told her that her family was actually in the Witness Protection Program. A long time passed before she could recover from the initial shock. Questions on top of questions were stacked in her mind, with no idea where to begin. Jacob had recognized the distress in her eyes and suggested they grab a bite to eat before continuing their talk.

  He made spaghetti with marinara sauce from a jar. It made her miss her mom’s home cooking so much.

  “I’ll have to go back tomorrow to get some necessary things,” Becky looked around her, “you can tell, right away, that this place needs a woman’s touch . . .” she snuck a half-smile at Jacob.

  “All right, I’ll take you. But first, I need to talk to you about something.” He got quiet for a moment. “It seems like tomorrow you’ll have to move someplace else.”

  “What?! Why?” she snapped. She felt betrayed yet again. Did Uncle Jake not want her around?

  “If it were up to me, you’d stay here,” he continued as if reading her thoughts, “but the agency wants you to join another family that lives nearby, also in the Witness Protection Program. That’s the only way we can continue protecting you.”

  “Why can’t you protect me?” she demanded. Her eyes expressed a
mixture of pleading and anger.

  “It has nothing to do with me.” Jacob shook his head. “You need to understand, you’re still a minor, and so it’s our responsibility to find you a proper family arrangement.” He paused briefly. “Unfortunately, I don’t belong in this category. In the eyes of the law, I’m the marshal assigned to handle your case and nothing more.”

  “But you’re not!” she cried with a broken voice. “You’re my uncle, Uncle Jake! Besides Brandon, you’re the only family I have left!” Her eyes started to glisten.

  “I know, kiddo.” He heaved a sigh. “That’s the reason you are authorized to stay here tonight as an exception. But the system has its own rules. I’m sorry.”

  “I couldn’t care less about the system!” Becky interjected, feeling her heart pounding. She hardly ever talked back, let alone to Uncle Jake.

  “Believe me, Becky, I’ve tried everything . . .”

  “Yeah, right,” she muttered in a sarcastic tone, swiftly wiping her tears away.

  “Listen,” he said, “right now, my most important goal is to protect you.” He looked into her eyes, “Your mother was shot, your brother is in the hospital, and your father is missing. The people who did this were able to find you after years of your family having been in hiding, and chances are they’re looking for you, too. I’m not going to let this happen!” he vowed as a worried expression took over his face. Jacob took a sharp inhale, “You know I’d do anything to help and protect you, don’t you? So, give me a chance. You’ll need to trust me. I promise I’ll work day and night to find the scumbags who did this and bring your father back home. But until then, I need you to be someplace safe.”

  “But–”

  “End of discussion,” he announced in an authoritative voice. “I’m not prepared to put your life on the line. This is just a temporary solution until I manage to figure out what the hell has happened here. I promise.” He placed his hand on hers.

  Becky’s eyes rested on his hand holding hers. She shook her hand from his grip and left the dining table. The pasta dish he’d made was left on her plate almost untouched.

  The laugh track of the old sitcoms interrupted her train of thought and brought her back to reality. It was already late, and Uncle Jake was asleep in his room. Becky turned the television off and tried to fall asleep, unsuccessfully. Too many thoughts and conjectures swirled in her mind. She reached for her bag and took out the old photo album she’d found.

  Her eyes fell on a picture of her mother when she was about her age, dressed in a green ball gown. Behind it was a handwritten note: Spring Dance, 1986. Tears flooded her eyes when she noticed the strong resemblance between the image of her young mother and herself. On the back of another photo it said, High School Graduation, 1988. Her mother had an older woman at her elbow, who appeared in the other pictures. Becky presumed her to be her grandmother. She woefully ran her hand over a photo of Emily in her graduation gown, embracing young Max. The next photo showed Emily, still in her academic regalia, with the woman Becky had recognized as her grandmother; but this time, it was in a different place. The two women were standing at the top of a staircase leading to a brick stone house marked with the number 1970. Behind the photo was written, Graduation party at home. Becky heaved a sigh of astonishment and stared curiously at a house she had never seen before but clearly meant a great deal to her mother. She realized that this was where her mom had grown up. If only she could guess where this house was . . .

  When she flipped to the next page, the answer was revealed. A yellowing, old envelope fell to her hands.

  To Emily Hershenberg

  1970 East 13th St.

  11229

  Brooklyn, New York

  Becky opened the envelope and drew out the pages. It was an acceptance letter from Columbia University School of the Arts. Of course, her mother never bothered to tell her she’d studied there. Becky assumed her mom kept it as a souvenir. Emily was always very sentimental, and as an art professor in the local college she saved all the bizarre artwork and unidentified drawings Brandon and Becky had made as kids. Becky recalled how her mother used to create these beautiful paintings for hours. She and her brother had always implored her to sell them or at least exhibit them, but they always heard the same refusal on the pretense that “real artists are struggling for a living as it is.”

  Becky felt as if another piece of the very inexplicable puzzle of her parents’ secret life had been revealed. That was why they never traveled to New York despite Brandon’s and her pleas. It was just too dangerous.

  So, what’s next, she wondered? The secret had been exposed, she’d lost the people dearest to her heart, and she was being forced to pretend that nothing had happened. As if that wasn’t enough, now the federal agency wanted to move her to live with a bunch of strangers, pretending they were her family, while still living a fake life manufactured by the Witness Protection Program.

  No, she would not live a lie anymore. The last sixteen years had been more than enough. She had one last chance to figure out who she really was, and there was only one person to go to.

  She had to go to New York. Brooklyn, New York, to be exact.

  CHAPTER 10

  “Last chance, Max, Where’s my money?”

  The proud man was shackled to the chair, sitting as upright as he could despite his restraints. His chains rattled. He looked at the man in the expensive business suit who had just punched him, and he spat the blood in his mouth onto the dusty asphalt floor of the deserted warehouse, straight between the feet of his attacker. Tiny drops of blood spattered and stained his tailored pants.

  Max glared without a hint of fear into his captor’s narrow, pitch-black eyes and answered slowly, “I. Don’t. Know.”

  “You motherfucker!” Ray Helborgen landed another blow to Max’s face, with such force that it made the chair – with Max on it – tip and fall to the side. “You’re not in Kansas anymore, or whatever you call the hellhole you’ve been hiding in for the last twenty years. Have you forgotten who you’re dealing with?” He pierced him with a deadly stare.

  Beads of sweat trickled from Max’s side temple onto his cheek and then dropped on the sandy floor, mixing with the blood that continued to drip from his nose.

  “Ray, as much as I enjoy you beating the shit out of me, I really don’t know where your fucking money is,” he said defiantly. He wasn’t going to let this scumbag watch him surrender.

  Even with Max chained and restrained at his feet, Ray could still hear the condescending tone that had always typified the Jewish accountant. He always thought he was better than us because he had his corner office and his fancy business cards, but he had no problem taking our money and getting rich on our dime – he thought resentfully and felt his jaw clenching – his hands are just as dirty.

  He kicked Max’s stomach, applying pressure with the sole of his shoe to crush his internal organs. Max coughed repeatedly, and his back curved in a distorted manner while still bound to the chair.

  “You fucking little Jew, do you think I’m playing with you? My patience is about to run out!” Ray leaned over and clutched Max’s cheek with his hands, digging his fingernails into his flesh. “My uncle was sent to rot in prison because of you,” he said in an ice-cold voice. “Believe me, I’ve waited twenty years for the moment I get break your scrawny neck, and you ain’t giving me any reasons to change my mind . . .” He tightened his grip to the point that Max’s face turned blue.

  Max shook his head forcibly away from him, getting a hold of his breath. “So, do it!” he cried. “Kill me already!”

  Ray looked at him, surprised, and let go of his grip a bit.

  “You killed my wife and son!” screamed Max. “Why do you think I even want to go on living this goddamn meaningless life? Your stupid bank account balance is the last thing on my mind,” he snapped.

  Ray pulled away and studied him for a long time. Max could see by his flickering eyes that he was looking for a new course of action.
r />   The smile on the mobster's face indicated that he found one. “You know,” he said in an alarmingly calm voice, “there are worse things than death . . .” He pulled a gun from behind his back and aimed down at Max’s crotch.

  Max stared at it, paralyzed.

  “How ‘bout I arrange you a sex change operation?” he said while loading the gun. “I always said that Jews are like dogs – they should be fixed.”

  “I don’t know where your money is!” Max’s voice didn’t sound as calm this time. Cold sweat washed his face and his breathing grew faster.

  “And I don’t know if there are any bullets left in the gun,” retorted Ray peacefully. “There’s only one way to find out . . .” His fingers caressed the trigger.

  “Ray, I don’t know where your money is!” Max was already screaming. “I just don’t know!”

  Suddenly, he fell silent. He closed his eyes and whispered despairingly, “You killed the only person who knew.”

  CHAPTER 11

  September 13, 2013. Fairland, Oklahoma

  00:59

  Becky: Hey are you up?

  Justin was lying in his bed, wearing nothing but boxer shorts. He stared at the text message he just received from the girl he had kissed only hours ago. If his friends knew he received a text from Becky Mitchell this late at night, they would have patted him on the back. But considering the fact that her house was surrounded with “Police Line – Do Not Cross” tape, that was the last thing on his mind.

  Justin: Hey are you alright? Called and texted like a gazillion times, but no answer.

  I was afraid something happened to you :(