Bloody Riddle

After the car crash scrambled my husbands brain, he lost the ability to speak. Well, almost.

He was left with exactly two words in his vocabulary: Yes and No.

But the real kicker? Every time he answered a question, he physically could not tell a lie. It felt like a twisted gift from the universe.

I sat across from him one morning and asked, "Are you sleeping with my best friend?"

The color drained from his face. His jaw trembled, but his mouth moved entirely against his will. "Yes."

"Have you been hiding money in secret accounts?"

"Yes."

"Is your bank pin your high school sweethearts birthday?"

"Yes."

Armed with his bizarre new condition, I ruthlessly dismantled his life. I sent his mistress packing, secured every last penny of his assets, and watched him sit there, completely incapable of even cursing me out.

Life was perfectly peaceful. Until this afternoon.

A ridiculously attractive food delivery guy dropped off my lunch and brazenly asked for my number. I flirted back, deliberately glancing over at my husband, who was staring blankly at the wall like a wooden doll.

"Are you even my husband?" I scoffed, rolling my eyes. "Another guy is hitting on me right in front of you and you don't even care?"

Without missing a beat, he blurted out, "No."

My smile vanished. I froze, my eyes locking onto his dull, vacant pupils.

The silence in the room stretched out until it felt suffocating. Finally, I whispered, "Then is my husband, Nolan, dead?"

"Yes and no."

A violent chill shot down my spine.

I leaned in, staring into his eyes with absolute focus, and asked again.

"Are you Nolan?"

The man sitting in front of me maintained a perfectly serene expression.

"No."

My lips started to tremble. "Then who are you?"

He didn't answer. He couldn't. The rules of his brain damage dictated he could only answer yes or no questions.

And now, apparently, "Yes and no."

I grabbed his face, examining every single inch of skin. It was Nolans face. It was identical.

I traced the jagged scar near his temple. Three years ago, some idiot dropped a glass bottle from a high rise. Nolan had shoved me out of the way and taken the glancing blow to the head. It took seven stitches to close.

This was Nolans scar. There was no mistaking it.

I sat back, my mind racing in total chaos.

Since the accident, this man had been a living crystal ball. He had answered every question with one hundred percent accuracy, even things completely unrelated to his life.

He accurately predicted the exact scores of soccer matches. He confirmed insane celebrity scandals before they leaked. I had made a small fortune betting on his answers, and I trusted his "Yes" or "No" with my life.

I knew for a fact that if I asked him, "Is an earthquake going to hit in five minutes?" and he said "Yes," I would grab my emergency bag and sprint out the door without a second thought.

But just now, he told me he wasn't Nolan.

And when I asked if Nolan was dead, he gave me a paradoxical answer.

The cold terror in my chest began to spread.

If this man wasn't Nolan, then who the hell had I been living with for the past three months?

Where was the real Nolan? How could someone be "Yes and no" dead? Was he in a coma somewhere?

I was seriously debating whether to tie him to a chair and interrogate him when a sharp, aggressive knocking rattled the front door.

I walked over and pulled it open. Two police officers were standing on my porch.

"Riley? We're with the City Police Department. What we're about to tell you might be a shock, so please try to stay calm."

The older detective pulled out a notepad. "At 9:30 this morning, we received a call. A highly decomposed body was pulled from the riverbed. We found an ID on the remains belonging to your husband, Nolan. We're here to ask if you know anything about this."

My knees went weak. I grabbed the doorframe. "That's impossible!"

The two officers exchanged a sharp, vigilant look.

"Why is it impossible?"

I dug my fingernails into my palms, forcing myself to breathe.

"Because Nolan isn't dead. He's sitting right there."

I pointed toward the living room couch. The man who looked exactly like Nolan was sitting there, his head bowed, completely silent.

The officers froze. The older one stepped past me, walking straight into the living room. He pulled out the recovered ID card and held it up to the man's face.

Seeing the exact same features staring back at him, the detective fell dead silent.

I hurried over, waving my hands. "My husband is incredibly careless. He loses his wallet all the time. Someone must have stolen his ID and ended up in the river. It's just a horrible coincidence."

The detective ignored me. He leaned down and looked the man in the eyes. "Excuse me. Are you Nolan?"

The man blinked slowly and muttered, "No."

The air in the living room turned to lead.

The way the officers looked at me instantly shifted from sympathetic to deeply suspicious.

I panicked and scrambled to grab the medical files from the coffee table.

"Please, let me explain! Three months ago, my husband was in a severe car crash. His hippocampus was destroyed. He lost his memory, and his speech center is permanently damaged. He can only say 'Yes' and 'No.' Watch, I'll prove it."

I stepped in front of the man. "Nolan, do you love eating garbage?"

"No."

"Nolan, are these police officers bad guys?"

"No."

"Nolan, are you Nolan?"

"No."

I turned to the cops with a helpless, exhausted smile.

"See? His cognitive function is basically that of a seven year old. You can't take anything he says literally."

The two officers exchanged another look. They carefully reviewed the official medical reports from the neurology department and stepped outside to make a verification call.

When they came back, their shoulders had dropped a fraction.

"It seems this might just be a massive misunderstanding," the older detective said. "But we still need you to come down to the station to give a formal statement."

I asked if I needed to bring Nolan.

The detective thought about it. "Bring him. You probably don't want to leave him home alone in his condition anyway."

So, I brought the man with me to the precinct.

Back at the house, I had played a calculated game. I purposefully asked three questions that required a "No" answer.

The second question proved the cops were good people, which meant I wasn't in any immediate danger.

But just as I finished signing my statement and prepared to leave the station, the interrogation room door swung open.

A female detective walked in, her face like a sheet of ice.

"Hold on. I have a few questions."

She signaled the younger cop to leave the room, then sat down directly across from me.

"I think you're lying."

My fingernails dug into my palms again.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

The female detective stared right through me. She reached over and clicked off the recording camera. Her voice dropped to a low whisper.

"Didn't recognize me, Riley? It's Harper."

I flinched.

I honestly hadn't recognized her. Harper. We went to high school together.

The girl who had been desperately, obsessively in love with Nolan.

We used to hate each other. She chased him for years. After Nolan finally rejected her, she dropped off the map. I had no idea she became a cop.

"The DNA results from the corpse aren't back yet," Harper said coldly. "We can't confirm if the body is Nolan, which means the man sitting next to you could easily be a hired actor."

She shifted her gaze to the man beside me. Her tone instantly softened.

"Nolan? Do you remember me?"

He glanced at her for a split second before dropping his head back down.

I wasn't sure if I was imagining it, but a flash of deep pain crossed Harper's eyes.

I spoke up immediately. "His brain is fried. He can't answer anything outside of a yes or no."

Harper tapped her pen against the metal desk, her eyes narrowed in thought.

"Tell me, Riley. Why was Nolan in a car crash to begin with?"

My body tensed. The memories flooded back.

When I first found out Nolan was cheating, I completely lost my mind.

He had started getting sloppy about a year ago. A smudge of lipstick on his passenger seat. A long strand of unfamiliar hair tangled in his coat button. The endless excuses about working late, followed by nights where he just never came home.

The signs were blaring like sirens.

But he was smart. He physically ripped the dashcam out of his car. He wiped his phone clean every single day. I couldn't find a shred of hard evidence.

When I hysterically confronted him, all I got was his impatient, vicious yelling.

"Enough! Do you have any idea how psychotic you look right now?"

"You want to check my phone? Check it! But when you find absolutely nothing, you're going to get on your knees and beg for my forgiveness!"

I was completely dead inside. I had the divorce papers drafted. And then, the crash happened.

He fell asleep at the wheel and drifted into an oncoming freight truck on a mountain road.

I let out a bitter sigh. "Should I thank God for the karma? He crashed his car on his way to see his little mistress and turned himself into an idiot. Go pull the traffic reports. The accident is entirely documented."

Harper nodded slowly. She typed something into her phone. A moment later, a message popped up on her screen. She read it, and her face grew completely rigid.

"Everything you just said checks out. But it still doesn't prove the man sitting next to you is Nolan."

I finally snapped.

"Are you insane? Look at his face! You've stared at him enough in high school to know what he looks like."

Harper cut me off. "Riley, I think you murdered Nolan."

I let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. "If you keep talking like this, I'm filing a formal complaint against you."

"A body gets pulled out of a river, bloated and rotting, and you're claiming it's Nolan just because you found his wallet nearby?"

"It's not just the wallet," Harper said. "The height and weight of the corpse perfectly match Nolan's last physical exam."

Her voice suddenly dropped to a fragile whisper. "And there's a tattoo."

"The face might be decayed, but the tattoo on the inner wrist is pristine. It's totally unique."

She swallowed hard, closing her eyes.

"Because I inked it on him myself."

The interrogation room fell completely silent. The man beside me hadn't made a sound.

But the second Harper mentioned the tattoo, his fingers twitched.

Without hesitation, I grabbed his arm and violently shoved his sleeve up to his elbow.

Right there, on his inner wrist, was an incredibly ugly, amateur tattoo of a small dog.

Harper's face lost all its color.

"Don't tell me you gave that exact same tattoo to two different people," I sneered.

"I always wondered why a guy like him had such a pathetic piece of ink. Now I know it was your handiwork."

"Does your face hurt yet, Harper? Still want to accuse me? What is my motive for killing him?"

Her brows knitted together tightly. "A tattoo can be copied..."

I cut her off aggressively.

"Copied? So you're telling me I found a guy who looks identical to my husband, matches his exact physical build, and then forced him to get a matching tattoo? Why would I go through that kind of psychotic effort?"

"He cheated on me, and karma turned him into a drooling idiot who relies entirely on me. If I play the role of the devoted, heartbroken wife, his wealthy parents treat me like royalty. I have total control over every cent he owns."

"If he dies, his parents swoop in and freeze his assets for probate. What exactly do I gain from him being dead?"

The older detective suddenly opened the door and stepped in, coughing loudly. "Detective, watch your line of questioning. Stick to protocol."

I leaned back in my metal chair, crossing my arms with a cold smile.

I wasn't worried. Because I had never killed anyone.

No matter how deep they dug, my hands were clean.

What terrified me was why the dead guy had Nolan's ID. And who the hell the dead guy actually was.

I had to protect the secret of this man's "Yes/No" truth-telling ability. If the cops found out he was a human lie detector, things would spiral out of control.

Harper grilled me for another hour, but she got nowhere.

Based on the estimated time of death of the river corpse, the security cameras around my house proved I had a rock-solid alibi.

When Harper and the older detective stepped out to check on the DNA rush order, I leaned in close to the man beside me.

"Is the real Nolan dead?"

He stayed silent for a second, then whispered, "Yes and no."

"Everything you say is a hundred percent true, right?"

"Yes."

My racing heart finally settled.

I couldn't help but mock him.

"Nolan, you really are a piece of work. Cheating with some random girl, and keeping your pathetic high school stalker hung up on you for years."

"Wait. If the real Nolan is 'Yes and no' dead... is he a vegetable?"

He thought about it. "No."

I frowned, but decided to drop it.

The only thing that mattered right now was getting out of this police station.

Harper walked back in. Her eyes were burning with deep, bitter frustration.

"The DNA results are back. The body in the river is not Nolan. We're running it through the national database now."

I smirked. "Great. Then we're leaving."

She threw her arm out, blocking the door. "The dead guy isn't Nolan, but the guy standing next to you is even weirder."

"My gut tells me he isn't Nolan. I think you've hidden Nolan somewhere, and this guy is a body double."

I stared her down.

"Your gut? Is this how you conduct police work, Harper? Making up conspiracy theories?"

"Just a gut feeling," she muttered with a bitter smile. "Forget it. You're free to go."

I grabbed the man's hand and started walking toward the exit, my heels clicking sharply against the tile.

Just as we reached the hallway, Harper called out.

"Wait. You said earlier he can only answer yes or no questions. Right?"

A sudden, sharp spike of dread pierced my chest.

Before I could react, Harper sprinted forward and grabbed the man by the wrist.

"Did Riley kill the real Nolan?"

I froze.

And then, the man standing next to me opened his mouth, his voice crystal clear.