Queen of Lies (Empire of Lies 2)

Pulling open the top dresser drawer, I hope to find some hint of who Michael is, but it’s empty.

I pull open the next one. Empty.

Then the next, and the next. All empty.

Moving on to the file cabinet, I tug on the top drawer, but it’s locked. The second one doesn’t budge a bit, but the third one slowly gives way.

Inside are a few identical leather wallets and a ton of neatly organized manila folders and envelopes.

Picking up the first wallet, I flip it open and see a Pennsylvania state license is for someone named Tyler Spears. The man in the picture is definitely Michael, though.

The cards in the other slots aren’t credit cards. They’re other state licenses with varying names and fake addresses, but they all feature varying pictures of him in black and dark grey sweaters.

As I look a little closer at the Arizona license that’s under the name Brock Daniels, I notice that his green eyes aren’t as dark in that picture. They’re still as stunning as ever, but they have a different tint to them. Not only that, but his lips aren’t as full, and the shirt he’s wearing for the camera exposes most of his neck.

Why doesn’t he have any tattoos in this one?

To the naked eye, this Arizona man looks exactly like Michael but not to me. The differences are subtle, but I know my husband. (Well, I thought I did.) This license is either a terribly bad photo-shop job, or this man has an identical twin brother who doesn’t share his appreciation for tattoos.

It takes me all of five minutes to realize it’s the latter.

One of the manila folders is full of pictures of the two of them. They’re faded pictures from the past—long before we’d ever met, long before he lied and said he didn’t have any family to invite to our wedding.

My heart aches as I stare at a picture of his tattooed hand giving his brother a high five on what appears to be a college campus. I make it through about twenty of their brotherly pictures and decide I’ve had enough.

He lied straight to my face…

I continue opening folder after folder, finding myself face to face with even more confusion. There are passports for damn near a hundred countries, with the colored currency to match. There are birth certificates for at least twenty different people, and just as I’m committing a few of the names to memory, a blank passport booklet falls to the floor.

This one doesn’t belong to him or his brother, though.

It belongs to me.

The photo has been edited to make my hair blonde instead of dark brown, and my name isn’t printed at all.

I tuck it into my swim shorts, making a mental note to search for “passport fraud” on my limited YouTube app.

My watch now reads midnight, and there’s plenty more manila folders and envelopes to rummage through, but I have to stop in thirty minutes. Not because I think I shouldn’t be in here in search of the truth, but because my heart can only take so much in a day.

There are several sheets of paper with handwritten notes. Random dates and times, but it’s nothing concrete.

7:10 arrives at work

7:25 checks email; inbox empty

7:35 calls Gchats for an hourHilton rendezvous planned for the evening

8:52 calls H; sends flowers

Sighing, I return everything to its place and push the drawer shut.

The track rattles and the drawer refuses to go back into place. I try again, but it’s no use. Something is stuck at the back of the cabinet.

Stooping down, I stick my hands inside and feel around—catching the snag of a crumpled sheet of paper. Slowly pulling it out, I unravel it, and see the words I heard on my wedding day. Words I’ve replayed in my mind every damn day.

I love you, Meredith.

I vow to cherish and protect you for the rest of our lives together—however long that may be.

The words hit differently now, though. They’re lies. All lies.

I flip the sheet over and see that there’s an entirely different draft of his words.

Meredith,

I wish we’d met under different circumstances.

I wish I didn’t have to do this to you, but I have to.

It’ll all make sense in the end.

—M

My mind spins and my chest aches so badly, that I feel like I’m on the verge of having a heart attack.

Folding his vows, I tuck them into the pages of my fake, unfinished passport and slam the file cabinet shut.

Taking one last look at the criminal warehouse, I hit the lights and walk away from the closet.

When I open the door to his bedroom, I gasp at the sight of Michael standing right in front of me.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” He glares at me.

“I wasn’t looking for anything,” I say, “I was just browsing around.”