Chapter 3 - The Mirror Image
Before Dr. Cole could process the frantic warning, a sudden, explosive commotion erupted out in the main hallway of the St. Catherine’s clinic.
It wasn't just raised voices; it sounded like a physical struggle. A heavy plastic chair scraped violently across the tile floor, followed by the sound of medical charts crashing to the ground. At the reception desk, the intake nurse shrieked in genuine alarm, yelling for security.
Dr. Cole whipped around toward the open doorway, her hand reaching instinctively for the crash cart. "Stay here, Mara."
Before Nurse Ruth could block the threshold, a man burst breathlessly into the examination room.
Mara’s breath caught permanently in her windpipe.
The man standing in the doorway had the exact same damp, shoulder-length black hair. The exact same sharp, lean jawline. The exact same tired gray eyes and worn-out canvas work jacket smelling faintly of rain and motor oil.
He looked identical in every single physical dimension to the man who had walked out of the room less than two minutes ago.
Except for one terrifying detail.
Protruding slightly above the collar of his soaked work shirt, right on the right shoulder, was a distinct, raised, pale burn scar—roughly the size of a coin.
The man took one frantic step into the room, his chest heaving as he scanned the space, his wild gaze landing first on Dr. Cole, then on Nurse Ruth, before finally fixing with raw, desperate anguish on Mara.
He looked from Mara’s terrified face to the empty doorway he had just barged through, and the color drained completely out of his face until he looked like a corpse.
"Where is he?" the man demanded, his voice cracking with a frantic, breathless terror that mirrored Mara’s own soul. "Did he just leave? Which way did he go?!"
Mara was entirely incapable of speech. Her vocal cords were locked tight, her chest refusing to expand as the impossible nightmare looped over and over in her brain. Two men. Two Evan Reeds.
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The second man took one desperate step closer to the bed, ignoring the defensive posture Dr. Cole had instinctively assumed. He reached out with both hands, palms open and empty, begging for understanding.
"Mara... please, look at me," he pleaded, tears welling in his gray eyes. "My name is Evan Reed. I am your husband. And I need you to tell me right now—did that bastard touch you?"
