Chapter 2: I CAN’T EXPLAIN A THING! EVERY SCAMMING PHOTO HAS MY FACE

The moment the door closed, Evelyn slid down against it and sat on the floor.

Her hands were still trembling.

She stared at the pile of papers thrown onto the entryway cabinet.

For a long time, she was afraid to touch them.

The footsteps in the hallway faded.

But the neighbors’ whispers still slipped through the door.

“A designer?”

“She looks so respectable.”

“Girls these days will do anything for money.”

Evelyn took a deep breath.

Then she picked up the papers one by one.

The first page was a chat history.

The profile picture was a side shot Evelyn had taken on a street in SoHo.

Artistic.

Effortless.

The “Evelyn” in those conversations sounded like an entirely different woman.

“Darling, my father is looking at a penthouse near Central Park…”

“This bag was brought back from Paris by my mother.”

“You like it?”

“I’ll carry it for you next time.”

Evelyn read every line.

Her stomach turned.

She had never said any of those things.

“That’s not me.”

She whispered it to herself.

The second page was a transfer receipt.

The tall man was a JPMorgan vice president.

He had transferred $470,000 over three months.

The bespectacled man was a law-firm partner.

He had transferred $350,000.

The third man was even more outrageous.

A wealthy young entrepreneur from overseas.

He had wired $800,000 as “startup capital.”

Every transfer memo was nauseatingly intimate.

“For my little princess.”

“From your loving fiancé.”

Evelyn kept turning the pages.

The colder she became.

The woman pretending to be her had handled each of the three men with terrifying precision.

With the investment banker, she talked about art collecting.

With the lawyer, she discussed vineyards and fine wine.

With the entrepreneur, she talked about venture capital and market trends.

She knew exactly what each man wanted to hear.

This was not something an ordinary scammer could improvise.

Someone had studied Evelyn.

Imitated her.

Taken her apart piece by piece.

Then Evelyn reached an audio-transcript exchange with the investment banker.

The voice had been altered.

But the tone and speaking habits were exactly like hers.

Even the slight upward curve at the end of certain sentences was identical.

A chill ran down Evelyn’s back.

This person wasn’t simply stealing money.

This person was becoming her.

Evelyn reached the final page.

Her hand suddenly stopped.

It was a photograph of “her” standing beneath the Eiffel Tower in Paris.

Sunset.

Red wine.

A long coat blowing in the wind.

The caption read:

“Day three in Paris. Missing you.”

Evelyn stopped breathing for a moment.

That day—

She rushed into her bedroom and grabbed her work phone.

She opened the cloud photo archive and checked the location history.

Brooklyn studio.

4:00 a.m.

The screen showed the design draft she had worked on all night.

A takeout receipt sat beside her coffee cup.

That day, she had never left New York.

She had never been anywhere near Paris.

Evelyn collapsed into her chair.

Cold sweat covered her back.

This was more than stolen photographs.

Someone had taken her face.

Her life.

Her taste.

Her identity.

And built an entirely fake version of Evelyn Thorne.

A version richer.

More elegant.

More desirable.

Then they used that fake Evelyn to scam three wealthy men.

Evelyn covered her face.

A faint sound escaped between her fingers.

Suddenly, she remembered a girl from high school.

Someone who always sat in the corner watching her.

Those eyes had always looked poisoned.