Chapter 3: Two Men, One Voice
For a few seconds, Nia couldn't even scream.
She stood in the middle of the living room, staring at the man who had just entered through the front door.
His shoes were wet from the evening rain. A tiny white thread clung to the cuff of his navy work shirt. His wedding ring caught the light when he adjusted the strap of his bag.
Every detail was familiar.
Every detail was real.
He looked exactly like Marcus.
“Baby?”” he said again.
Nia backed into the couch.
The man glanced down and noticed the phone lying on the floor.
Then he noticed her expression.
“What happened?””
She pointed at him with a trembling finger.
“Don't move.””
He stopped immediately.
“Okay.””
“Don't come any closer.””
“All right, Nia.””
She hated how gently he said her name.
She hated the slight crease between his eyebrows, the way his lips pressed together when he was worried, the little movement of his thumb against his wedding ring.
Those were the things she had loved about Marcus for six years.
Now they felt like evidence at a crime scene.
“Who are you?”” she asked.
His face fell.
“It's me.””
“No. No, it isn't.””
“Baby, look at me.””
“I am looking at you!””
Her shout echoed through the foyer.
The man glanced toward the staircase.
Then he looked back at her.
“Is somebody upstairs?””
Nia let out a broken laugh.
“Don't do that.””
“Do what?””
“Pretend you don't know.””
He slowly lowered his work bag to the floor.
“Nia, I don't know what's happening, but you're scaring me.””
“I'm scaring you?””
“Yes.””
She shook her head violently.
“You came in here. You told me you'd been at work. Then somebody upstairs started talking to me in your voice.””
He stared at her.
“And you saw something in my eyes,” she added.
His expression changed.
Not much.
Just a slight tightening around the mouth.
But she saw it.
“You saw something?”” he asked.
Nia stepped away from him.
“Don't.””
“I'm asking you a question.””
“Your eyes turned red.””
The man went completely still.
For the first time, the warm expression she knew so well vanished from his face.
He looked toward the staircase again.
This time, fear crossed his features.
Real fear.
Nia grabbed onto that expression as if it were a rope hanging over a cliff.
“You know something,” she whispered.
He didn't answer.
“You know what's upstairs.””
“Nia,” he said carefully, “I need you to listen to me.””
“No. You listen to me. I want you to tell me who the hell you are.””
He swallowed.
“I'm your husband.””
“Then what's my mother's name?””
He blinked.
“What?””
“My mother's name. Tell me.””
“Denise.””
“What did she call you the first time she met you?””
He hesitated.
Nia felt a flicker of hope.
Marcus had told that story dozens of times. Her mother had taken one look at him, shaken his hand, and called him the young man with the suspiciously good manners.
The man at the door finally answered.
“She called me the young man with the suspiciously good manners.””
Nia's hope died.
He knew.
He knew everything.
She backed farther into the living room.
“What's the first thing I ever cooked for you?””
“Burnt chicken.””
“You ate it.””
“I ate half of it.””
“You ate all of it!””
Despite herself, Nia almost smiled.
The man gave a small, pained laugh.
“There you are,” he murmured.
“That's my girl.””
The tenderness in his voice nearly broke her.
Then, from upstairs, another voice spoke.
“That's a lie.””
Nia's smile vanished.
The man at the door stared at the ceiling.
The upstairs voice continued.
“She put too much salt in the rice, too. You made her cry because you laughed.””
Nia felt a sharp pain in her chest.
That had happened on their second anniversary. She had spent an hour preparing dinner, and when Marcus tasted the rice, he had laughed so hard he nearly choked. She had cried in the kitchen, and he had followed her in, apologizing until she finally laughed, too.
Nobody knew that story.
Nobody except Marcus.
The man in the foyer slowly lifted his eyes toward the landing.
“Stop talking,” he said.
His voice was low.
The upstairs voice laughed.
“Why? She deserves to know.””
Nia pressed both hands against her ears.
“Stop it!””
Neither man listened.
The one upstairs said, “Tell her what happened in Savannah.””
The man at the door went pale.
Nia lowered her hands.
“What happened in Savannah?””
“Nothing,” the man at the door said quickly.
The upstairs voice answered at the same time.
“Tell her why you never let her open the blue suitcase.””
Nia stared at the man beside the entrance.
“What blue suitcase?””
He shook his head.
“Don't listen to him.””
The upstairs voice became softer, almost intimate.
“Ask him about the night your mother died.””
Nia stopped breathing.
Her mother had died three years earlier, in a hospital room in Atlanta. Marcus had been beside Nia through every terrible hour, holding her hand while she cried, driving her home afterward, sleeping on the floor beside her when she couldn't bear to lie in their bed.
There was nothing about that night she wanted to revisit.
She looked at the man in the foyer.
“What about the night my mother died?””
He took one step toward her.
“Baby, please. Whatever you hear, don't believe it.””
She stumbled backward.
“Answer me!””
He stopped.
His jaw tightened.
Then he said something that made the room feel suddenly colder.
“Your mother wasn't the first person to see me like this.””
Nia stared at him.
“What does that mean?””
He looked toward the staircase.
The upstairs voice answered for him.
“It means he knows exactly what I am.””
A slow creak sounded from the second floor.
Nia watched the empty landing.
The light above the stairs flickered once.
The man at the door moved between her and the staircase, his body tense now, his hands hanging at his sides.
“Stay behind me,” he said.
She didn't move.
“Which one of you is my husband?””
Neither answered.
The upstairs voice finally spoke.
“The one who remembers what he did.””
The man in the foyer closed his eyes.
Nia looked at him, searching for any sign of the man she had married.
“Marcus,” she whispered.
“Please.””
He opened his eyes.
They were brown.
Completely brown.
But his expression had changed. The warmth was gone, replaced by something older and exhausted, as if he had been carrying a terrible secret for much longer than six years.
“I was hoping,” he said, “you'd never have to remember.””
Nia's legs nearly gave out.
“Remember what?””
He reached into his pocket.
She flinched, expecting a weapon, but he pulled out a small photograph instead.
It was old, its corners bent and its surface yellowed.
He held it out to her.
“Your mother gave me this the night she died.””
Nia stared at the picture but didn't take it.
“Show me.””
He turned it toward her.
The photograph showed a little girl standing in front of a white house. She had two missing front teeth and a yellow ribbon in her hair.
Nia recognized herself immediately.
She had been six years old.
Beside her stood a boy with dark eyes and a solemn expression. His clothes looked strange, old-fashioned, and too large for his thin frame.
She had never seen him before.
But the boy wore a small silver ring on a chain around his neck.
Nia's hand flew to her throat.
She wore that exact ring beneath her shirt every day.
It had been her mother's last gift to her.
She had always believed it belonged to her grandmother.
“Where did you get that?”” Nia whispered.
The man at the door swallowed.
“Your mother told me to keep it safe.””
“Why?””
“Because she knew one day you'd ask who I was.””
A floorboard creaked upstairs.
The other man began descending the staircase.
Nia couldn't see his face yet, only his hand sliding along the railing and the familiar navy sleeve emerging from the shadows.
The man at the door stepped forward.
“Don't come down,” he warned.
The figure upstairs ignored him.
One step.
Then another.
Nia looked between them, her mind struggling to hold two impossible truths at once.
Both men had Marcus's face.
Both men had Marcus's voice.
And both were looking at her as if she were the only person in the world who could decide what happened next.
The man holding the photograph leaned toward her and whispered, “When he reaches the bottom, don't let him touch you.””
Nia's eyes widened.
“Why?””
His gaze fixed on the staircase.
“Because the last time he touched you, you died.””
The footsteps stopped.
From the darkness above, the second Marcus spoke in a voice that sounded exactly like the man beside her.
“That's not what happened, Nia.””
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Then he stepped into the light.
And in his hand was a photograph of Nia's grave.