PAINT IT RED (MikhAiah)

17: Buried Identities

"Real knowledge is to know the extent of one's ignorance." —Confucius

***

AIAH

My mother was a Confucius woman when she needed some motivational words. My father was an Einstein man when everything was crashing down on him.

Neither of the dead wise men are helping me out right now. Neither are my parents and all their words of wisdom.

To be fair, they probably never would have condoned me stealing another girl's identity, taking her inheritance, and using it to get some very disturbing revenge on all the men who scarred me for life.

Five minutes ago, my world was just fine—well, for me it was fine.

Then Maloi showed up at my front door. I never should have opened the door.

"I'm Maloi Ricalde," she says, interrupting me. Her name sounds vaguely familiar, though I'm not sure why.

"Okay." I shrug, letting her know that name holds no importance.

"Mikha Lim is my boss."

That's...surprising. "Shouldn't you be in DC? Heard the Boogeyman dropped another body."

Her eyes light up in surprise, and she jerks her phone out from her pocket, cursing when she reads something.

"I'll make this quick," she tells me, holding up a file.

She thrusts it at me, and my blood pumps quickly through my veins as I flip it open to see my worst fears starting to come to life.

"Actually, you make this quick," she says flatly. "Tell me why the hell you stole the identity of a dead girl."

My mind races through a thousand scenarios, wondering how much she knows. I know without a doubt my inner panic isn't showing on the surface. I'm the picture of composure. I've prepared for this, just not to this extent and with someone close to Mikha.

"You always so thoroughly invasive with a friend's girlfriend, or am I just special?" I ask the girl in front of me, keeping my tone cool and aloof.

"You really want to play this off? Fine. I'll just call Mikha. Tell her some lying bitch has been playing her like a fiddle."

"Feel free to call her. As for stealing a dead girl's identity, that's a false accusation. But by all means, go ahead and make yourself look like a crazy jealous girl."

I start to shut the door, but she slams her foot in the crack and stops it from shutting.

Got her.

Slowly, I open it back up, arching an eyebrow.

"Ten years ago, Sophia Laforteza was in a car accident because she was high as a kite. Her wounds were ruled as fatal, but she miraculously survived. Now how'd she manage that?"

She's purposely referring to Sophia as a separate person from me. She's trying to make me slip up.

"Ten years ago, I was a different person. My name was legally changed, and I got sober, made some real-life decisions. I was a sixteen-year-old kid back then, angry without a cause. New name, new life, new choices, and a healthier mentality. It was a miracle I survived, and I didn't take it for granted."

That's the script I've been rehearsing, preparing for the day when someone called me out.

She snorts derisively. "You don't even resemble her. And I've run facial recognition software; not even close."