Chapter 7: The Facade Cracks

The morning routine had become a grotesque ballet of mimicry. I stood before Liam's bathroom mirror, practicing expressions I'd observed in old photographs—the way he smiled with the left corner of his mouth slightly higher, how he ran his hand through his hair when nervous, the particular tilt of his head when listening intently. Each gesture was carefully catalogued, rehearsed, perfected.

But today, something was wrong.

My reflection wavered for just a moment, like heat distortion rising from summer asphalt. The features that should have been Liam's seemed to lose their cohesion, blurring at the edges before snapping back into focus. I gripped the sink, willing my borrowed form to stabilize, but the hunger gnawed at my chest with renewed intensity.

It had been three days since my last proper feeding at the Henderson house. Three days of surviving on scraps—brief conversations with coworkers, polite exchanges with neighbors, the thin gruel of casual human interaction. It wasn't enough. The emotional sustenance I drew from Liam's family was like a drug, and I was going through withdrawal.

My phone buzzed. A text from Mrs. Henderson.

"Liam honey, are you free for lunch today? I made your favorite chicken salad and I have some news to share! Mom ❤️"

The invitation was salvation disguised as maternal love. I typed back quickly, my hands trembling slightly with need.

"Would love to. See you at noon."

But first, I had to survive the morning at work. The office building that had once felt like a safe haven now felt like a stage where every performance mattered. Johnson was already hovering around my desk when I arrived, his nervous energy more pronounced than usual.

"Henderson, thank God you're here. The Morrison account—"

"Is handled," I finished, though I had no idea what state it was actually in. I'd been faking my way through work tasks, relying on Liam's saved files and vague responses to buy time.

Johnson's relief was palpable. "Good, good. Because we have a presentation at two, and the client specifically requested you handle the demographic analysis."

Demographic analysis. The words might as well have been in Sanskrit. I nodded confidently while panic clawed at my insides.

"No problem. I'll have it ready."

As Johnson walked away, I frantically searched through Liam's computer files, looking for anything that might relate to demographics. My reflection in the monitor screen flickered again, more noticeably this time. A coworker passing by my desk did a double-take, her expression confused.

"You okay, Liam? You look... weird."

"Just tired," I managed, forcing my features to stabilize through sheer will. "Long night."

She nodded sympathetically and moved on, but I caught her glancing back at me with lingering concern. The facade was cracking, and people were starting to notice.

By eleven-thirty, I was desperate. The hunger had grown from a gnawing ache to active pain, and my reflection in every surface showed the strain. My skin looked pale and waxy, my eyes slightly unfocused, like someone suffering from severe illness or exhaustion.

I made an excuse about lunch plans and fled the office, driving to the Henderson house with hands that shook on the steering wheel. Each mile felt like an eternity, each red light a torture as I fought to maintain human form through increasingly unstable willpower.

Mrs. Henderson opened the door before I could knock, her face lighting up with the kind of unconditional maternal joy that had become my lifeline.

"There's my boy!" She pulled me into a hug, and the relief was instantaneous. The warm energy of her love flowed into me like a healing balm, stabilizing my flickering form and soothing the ravenous hunger. "You look tired, honey. Have you been eating enough?"

"Just work stress," I said, breathing in the scent of home-baked bread and maternal concern. The simple act of being held, of being loved without question or condition, filled the hollow spaces inside me with borrowed warmth.

"Well, come sit. I made your favorite, and I have something exciting to tell you."

The kitchen was a temple to domestic perfection—spotless counters, fresh flowers, the kind of lived-in warmth that spoke of decades of family meals and shared moments. Mrs. Henderson bustled around, preparing plates while chattering about neighbors and weather and all the small details that made up a normal life.

"So," she said, settling across from me with barely contained excitement, "your father and I have been talking, and we've decided to throw you and Chloe a joint birthday party this year. Nothing too fancy, just family and close friends, but it would be so nice to have everyone together."

Joint birthday party. Another landmine in the field of Liam's life that I had to navigate without any real knowledge of the terrain.

"That sounds wonderful," I said carefully, taking a bite of chicken salad that tasted like cardboard in my mouth. Food still couldn't satisfy me, but the act of sharing a meal with someone who loved Liam sent nourishing waves of emotional energy through my system.

"I know your birthday isn't until next month, but Chloe's is next week, and I thought it would be fun to combine them. She's been so excited about it—keeps asking if you're bringing anyone special." Mrs. Henderson's eyes twinkled with maternal curiosity. "Speaking of which, you haven't mentioned dating anyone lately. Are you seeing someone?"

The question hit like a physical blow. Mrs. Henderson didn't know about Kael, had no idea that her son had been living a secret life with a man who now haunted the edges of my existence. The innocence in her question, the hopeful curiosity of a mother wanting her child to be happy, made the deception even more painful.

"Not right now," I said, which was technically true. Whatever Kael and I had wasn't dating—it was an alliance built on mutual need and shared obsession.

"Well, that's okay. The right person will come along when you're ready." She reached across the table and patted my hand, and the contact sent another pulse of stabilizing energy through me. "You just focus on being happy, sweetheart. That's all your father and I want."

Happy. The concept seemed absurd when applied to my existence—a creature that fed on love meant for a dead man, pretending to be human while hunting for a killer among the people who cared for me most.

"Mom," I said suddenly, surprising myself with the word's spontaneous appearance, "can I ask you something?"

"Of course, honey. Anything."

"Do you ever feel like something's wrong? Like things aren't quite the way they should be?"

Her expression shifted to gentle concern. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know. Just... lately, I feel like I'm not myself. Like I'm going through the motions but missing something important."

It was as close to the truth as I dared get, a confession wrapped in the kind of existential confusion that any young adult might experience. But Mrs. Henderson's response caught me off guard.

"Actually," she said slowly, "your father and I have been worried about you. You've seemed different lately—distant, like you're somewhere else even when you're here with us."

My blood chilled. "Different how?"

"Little things. The way you hold your fork, how you laugh at dad's jokes, even the way you walk. It's like..." She paused, searching for the right words. "It's like you're trying to be yourself instead of just being yourself, if that makes sense."

It made perfect, terrifying sense. Despite all my careful observation and practice, despite the memory fragments I'd absorbed from Liam's possessions, I was still failing at the fundamental task of being human. The people who knew him best could sense something was wrong, even if they couldn't articulate what it was.

"I've just been stressed," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Work, life, you know how it is."

"I know, sweetheart. But if there's anything troubling you, anything at all, you can talk to us. We're your family. We love you no matter what."

The words were meant to comfort, but they felt like knives. These people would die for Liam, would sacrifice anything to protect him. And here I was, a parasite wearing his face, feeding off their devotion while lying to them about the most fundamental aspect of my existence.

"I love you too, Mom."

The words came out with more emotional weight than I'd intended. Mrs. Henderson's eyes misted over, and she squeezed my hand tighter.

"Oh, sweetheart. Whatever you're going through, we'll get through it together. That's what families do."

Family. The word should have felt foreign, impossible, but sitting in that warm kitchen with this woman's love flowing through me, it felt more real than anything else in my borrowed life. The hunger receded further, replaced by something even more dangerous—genuine affection for the people I was deceiving.

The front door opened, and voices echoed from the entryway. Mr. Henderson was home early, and with him came the sound of Chloe's bright laughter. They entered the kitchen together, her arm linked through his, both of them smiling at the domestic scene before them.

"Well, well," Chloe said, her eyes taking in every detail of my appearance with that familiar intensity. "Look who's finally making time for family. You've been so busy lately, big brother."

There was something pointed in her tone, a subtle challenge that made my newly stabilized form want to flicker again. She settled into the chair next to me, close enough that I could smell her perfume—something floral and expensive that didn't quite mask an underlying sharpness.

"Just work stuff," I said, the excuse becoming worn from overuse.

"Must be quite the project," she continued, her smile never wavering. "You missed our Sunday dinner last week. Mom was so disappointed."

Had I missed a Sunday dinner? The days blurred together in my struggle to maintain this existence, and apparently I'd failed to show up for some important family tradition.

"I'm sorry," I said to Mrs. Henderson. "I should have called."

"It's okay, honey. I know you're busy." But there was hurt in her voice, the kind of maternal pain that came from feeling like your child was growing distant.

"Actually," Chloe said, her voice taking on a helpful tone, "I was telling Dad about that time in high school when you went through your rebellious phase. You remember—when you dyed your hair black and started wearing all that dark makeup?"

Another test. Another memory I should have but didn't. I could feel all three of them watching me, waiting for recognition that would never come.

"God, that phase," I said with a laugh that sounded hollow even to my ears. "I can't believe you remember that."

"Oh, I remember everything about those years," Chloe said, and there was something almost predatory in her smile. "Every single thing. Sometimes I think about them when I'm trying to fall asleep. All those late-night conversations we used to have, all those secrets we shared."

Secrets. The word hung in the air like a threat. What secrets had Liam shared with his sister? What confidences had he betrayed in moments of sibling intimacy?

"Chloe always did have a good memory," Mr. Henderson said, settling into his chair with obvious exhaustion. Even through my growing panic, I could see the stress lines around his eyes, the way his shoulders sagged with hidden burdens. Whatever financial troubles Liam had discovered, they were taking their toll.

"Speaking of secrets," Chloe continued, her eyes never leaving my face, "I found something interesting in the attic yesterday. Some old letters and photographs from high school. Want to look through them with me later?"

It was a trap. I could see it in the glittering intelligence behind her cheerful expression, the way she held herself like a cat preparing to pounce. She had something—evidence, memories, some piece of Liam's past that would expose my ignorance.

"Sure," I said, because refusing would be even more suspicious. "That sounds fun."

"Great!" She clapped her hands together with apparent delight. "We can do it tonight, after dinner. Just the two of us. Like old times."

The phrase 'like old times' felt loaded with meaning I couldn't decipher. Mrs. Henderson beamed at the prospect of her children bonding, completely unaware of the undercurrents of suspicion and deception flowing around her kitchen table.

My phone buzzed. A text from Kael.

"Emergency. Meet me at the warehouse. Now."

I stood abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. "I'm sorry, I have to go. Work emergency."

"But you just got here," Mrs. Henderson protested.

"I know, and I'm sorry. Rain check on those photos?" I directed this last to Chloe, who nodded with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"Of course, big brother. We have all the time in the world."

I kissed Mrs. Henderson's cheek and headed for the door, but Chloe's voice followed me.

"Oh, Liam? You might want to check your reflection before you go back to work. Your tie's a bit crooked."

I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror as I passed, and my blood turned to ice. My tie was perfectly straight, but my reflection showed clear signs of instability—features that seemed slightly out of focus, skin with a waxy, artificial sheen. She'd seen it. Somehow, Chloe had noticed the subtle wrongness that marked me as something other than human.

I fled the house with barely controlled panic, my borrowed form threatening to collapse entirely under the weight of discovery. Behind me, through the kitchen window, I could see Chloe watching my retreat with the satisfied expression of a predator who had just confirmed her suspicions about her prey.

The game was accelerating, and I was no longer sure I could keep up.