Red Roses, Dead Lies

###

My boyfriend had been missing on his business trip for three days, so I finally called 911.

Right after I hung up, the doorbell rang.

He stood there, holding a bunch of red roses, smiling. Hey baby, did you miss me?

My entire body froze. Cold sweat broke out across my back.

We had a secret code using rose colors.

Red roses meant...

*Danger. Run.*

I stared at his face. It was identical to the one in my memory.

But he never said such cheesy things. This man was absolutely not my boyfriend.

"Liam?"

My voice forced its way out of my throat, sounding as dry as sandpaper.

He tilted his head, thrusting the roses into my arms. "Only gone for three days, and you already forgot what I look like?"

The thorns pricked my palm. The sharp sting forced me to stay sharp.

I stepped aside to let him in, my eyes locked onto his every move.

Taking off his shoes, setting down the suitcase, hanging up his coat.

Every single movement matched Liams habits perfectly.

He even remembered the exact spot for the grey slippers on the second shelf of the shoe rack.

I bought those slippers just last month. Liam had only worn them twice before he left.

"Claire, why do you look so pale?"

He turned around, reaching out to touch my forehead.

Instinctively, I took half a step back.

His hand froze in mid-air, but his warmth quickly returned as a smile. "Are you mad because I went off the grid? The reception out there was terrible, and my phone broke. It took forever to get it fixed."

"Oh, really?"

I forced a smile, casually setting the roses on the entryway cabinet.

I tried to keep my movements natural, but my fingers were trembling.

"Yeah, the project had some last-minute issues. I had to work overtime to pull it off. I wanted to call you sooner, but my phone died. It was driving me crazy. You have no ideathere wasn't even a decent repair shop nearby. I had to drive forty miles to find one."

He spoke smoothly and naturally, even pulling out his phone to show me.

There was indeed a brand-new screen protector on it, with a tiny chip on the corner.

The last time Liam dropped his phone, it had chipped in that exact same spot.

Even the details matched.

I stared at his face. Every feature told me this was Liam.

The same brow bone, the same jawline, even the way his left eye squinted slightly more than his right when he smiled.

Yet, the cold sweat on my back refused to dry.

"Im gonna take a shower. I smell like outdoor sweat," he said, patting my shoulder before heading toward the bedroom.

I leaned against the wall, my heart hammering so hard it felt like it would burst.

Before Liam left for his trip, we had one last phone call. His voice had been incredibly low, as if he was terrified of being overheard.

He had said, "Claire, if there ever comes a day when I tell you to run, dont ask questions. Just run."

I asked him why.

He was silent for a long timeso long that I thought the call had dropped.

Then he said, "Because my dad didn't run in time."

Liams father was a cop who died in the line of duty ten years ago.

Liam never brought it up, always avoiding the subject.

Over time, I stopped asking.

But now, I was beginning to doubt everything.

I pulled out my phone and opened the call log.

Three minutes ago, I had dialed 911.

It rang twice, and then I hung up.

If the man in the other room wasn't Liam, where was the real Liam?

And if I called the cops now, what would I tell them?

I had absolutely no proof.

He hadn't made a single slip-up.

No, wait. He did.

The red roses.

---

###

During our second year together, we were curled up on the couch watching a crime show. The characters in the show used flower colors as secret codes to pass messages.

Liam was fascinated. He turned to me and said, "Let's make one too. Red roses mean danger, white means safe, and yellow means be careful."

I thought he was being overly dramatic at the time, but I played along and nodded anyway.

That agreement was a secret only Liam and I shared.

If the man in my house wasn't Liam, why did he bring red roses?

Unless...

This slip-up was left for me on purpose.

The sound of running water came from the bathroom, mixing with the rapid thudding of my heart.

I quietly pushed open the bedroom door.

Liams suitcase was open on the floor. His clothes were folded neatly.

He always traveled like thisevery shirt rolled into the exact same shape, lined up perfectly in the suitcase.

I knelt down, my fingers shaking as I rummaged through the side pockets.

His passport, a charger, a half-used pack of tissues.

Nothing.

Just as I was about to stand up, my eyes caught a piece of fabric peeking through the closet door.

I pulled the closet door open. It was the grey jacket Liam wore before he left.

He had owned this jacket for years. The cuffs were starting to fray, and though I offered to buy him a new one, he insisted this was his most comfortable piece.

I reached my hand into the pocket.

My fingertips brushed against something soft and slightly damp, like it had been sitting there for days.

I pulled it out. It was a red rose petal.

The petal was slightly withered, its edges curling and turning a dark, bruised color, as if it had been soaked in something.

Written on it in black ink were two words:

*RUN.*

The handwriting was messy and rushed. The last stroke of the 'N' dragged out long, as if he had been interrupted mid-write.

I recognized this handwriting.

It was Liam's.

His handwriting was just like himseemingly neat and orderly, but if you looked closely, the final stroke of every word always flicked upward.

The water in the bathroom stopped.

I quickly shoved the petal back into the jacket pocket, shut the closet door, pushed the suitcase back to its exact spot, and retreated to the living room.

Just as I sat down on the couch, he walked out, drying his hair with a towel.

He had changed into loungeweara grey T-shirt and dark blue shorts.

They were all Liam's clothes, and they fit him perfectly.

"Claire, can you check if I left my charger brick in the suitcase? I can't find it," his voice called out from the bedroom, carrying the lazy warmth of someone who had just showered.

I called back an answer and stood up to walk over.

His back was turned to me as he rummaged through the suitcase, exposing the skin of his neck.

The overhead light was brightbright enough for me to see every detail of his skin.

I stared at his neck, and my heart seized.

---

###

Liam had a mole on the back of his neck.

It was tiny and very light. You wouldn't notice it unless you were looking closely.

The only reason I knew about it was because we were messing around on the couch once, and my nail accidentally grazed it. He flinched, laughing, and told me that was his most ticklish spot.

The man in front of me didn't have it.

The mole was completely gone.

There were no scars from laser removal either. It was as if the mole had never existed in the first place.

My fingers started to tremble. I hid my hands behind my back, clenching my fists so hard my nails dug into my palms.

The pain cleared my head a little.

"Find it?"

He turned around, his eyes scanning my face.

I forced a smile. "No. Did you leave it at the hotel?"

That smile took every ounce of my energy.

My face felt stiff, but I knew if I didn't smile, he would notice.

He frowned. The angle of his brow, the expressionit was identical to Liams.

"Maybe. Ill call them later. The hotel staff seemed nice, so they probably found it."

He stood up and stepped closer to me. A drop of water from his wet hair fell onto the back of my hand.

"Claire, did you miss me?"

His warm breath brushed against my ear.

I froze, the blood in my veins turning to ice.

"Of course I did," I said, keeping my voice as steady as possible.

"Then why aren't you hugging me?"

He opened his arms, offering a warm, gentle smile.

The exact same smile Liam always gave.

Every time Liam came back from a trip, he would open his arms like this and say those exact words.

It was our little routine, starting from our very first year.

I stepped forward and lightly wrapped my arms around his waist.

His body was warm. His heartbeat was steady and strong, pulsing against my palm through his thin T-shirt.

But all I wanted to do was throw up.

"You lost weight," he said, stroking my hair with genuine concern.

"Just stressed at work."

I buried my face in his chest to hide my expression.

His chest smelled like body washthe exact brand I used.

Liam never used that brand. He complained it was too floral and always used unscented soap.

But this man used it.

Did he not know Liam's preference, or was it intentional?

Liam, where the hell are you?

Who is this man?

He made dinner that night.

Garlic butter pasta, roasted asparagus, and grilled chicken.

These were Liam's signature dishes, and they tasted exactly the same.

"Eat up. Look how thin you've gotten."

He placed some chicken on my plate. He was holding his fork in his left hand.

Liam was a lefty. He wrote with his left hand, ate with his left hand, and shot hoops with his left hand.

I used to tease him about being a lefty freak, and hed joke that left-handed people had more developed right brains, making them smarter than average.

I kept my head down, shoving pasta into my mouth as my mind raced.

How long had this man watched him?

How long did it take to copy Liam's habits to this degree?

Many of these details weren't things you could learn just by watching from afar.

Unless he and Liam had lived together.

"By the way," he said suddenly. "Did you call the police?"