Page 28 of The Cousins and the Brunette

“Look.” I thrust the printouts of the emails and the family photos toward them. “Our Elizabeth isn’t the real deal. Shoemaker hired a decoy.” I jabbed a finger at the pictures of the real Elizabeth Shoemaker.

I watched their reactions. Would they understand the gravity of the situation? Or would I have to spell it out for them like they were children?

Braxton snatched the papers, his eyes darting back and forth as he absorbed the information. The color drained from his face, then returned in a rush, his jaw clenching tight. “That son of a bitch,” he spat, the playful tone he usually carried now edged with ice.

Finally, a reaction that matched the fire in my gut. At least Braxton got it. But Sebastian...

Sebastian took his time, examining each piece of evidence with meticulous care. After a long pause, he shook his head slightly. “Are we certain? Could be a mistake. Maybe she changed...people do.”

I envied Sebastian’s nativity. How could he be so casual when everything was falling apart? Part of me wanted to shake him, to make him feel the urgency coursing through my veins.

“Changed? Seb, even plastic surgery can’t change someone’s height. And the girl downstairs can’t be more than five-foot’ five,” I retorted sharply.

My patience was fraying; time was slipping away, and every moment wasted meant Shoemaker had the upper hand.

“Okay, so she’s a fake. What now, Joel?” Braxton’s question hung between us like a challenge.

They were looking to me for answers, for direction. The responsibility sat heavy on my shoulders, but I’d be damned if I’d let it crush me.

I met his gaze squarely, the answer clear in my mind. “We confront her. We find out everything she knows about Shoemaker and why she agreed to this charade.”

“Then we use it against him,” Braxton finished, the anger in his voice matching my own.

“Perhaps,” I affirmed, the wheels already turning. “Let’s go have a chat with this ‘Elizabeth, first.”

Sebastian nodded, resigned, though the doubt lingered in his eyes. He followed us out of the office. My mind was a whirl. Who the hell was the woman locked up in our basement?

Our boots resounded through the hallway of the mansion. The ostentatious display of wealth around us—gilded mirrors, crystal chandeliers casting prismatic light on polished marble floors, and paintings of ancestors who would surely disapprove of our current predicament—made my anger sharpen.

“Life has a peculiar sense of irony,” I muttered, noticing a servant slip by, her eyes trained on the floor, avoiding our gazes.

The staff knew better than to ask questions or show curiosity toward the affairs of the Porter family.

Descending the staircase to the basement, the temperature dropped with each step, a chill seeping into my bones. The decadence of upstairs gave way to utilitarian concrete and steel below. This was another world entirely—a world where we controlled every variable.

The cold air down here always reminded me of the ruthlessness required in our line of work. No room for warmth or comfort when you’re dealing with liars and deceivers.

The door to the cell came into view, and I felt a surge of adrenaline. This was it—the moment of truth. The woman, with her long dark hair and defiant green eyes, stood with her back against the wall of the cell. She seemed small and vulnerable, yet she held herself with a certain pride that demanded respect.

I couldn’t help admiring her guts, even as I prepared to tear her story apart. It takes a special kind of crazy to try and pull one over on the Porters.

“Elizabeth,” I called out, using the name she claimed as hers.

The figure inside the cell rose to meet us, her posture rigid, defensive. Her green eyes—a stark difference from Elizabeth Shoemaker’s blue ones—met mine in defiance.

“Who exactly are you?” Braxton asked, the photos of the real Elizabeth in hand, ready to present them as evidence.

“Because you’re certainly not Elizabeth Shoemaker,” I said coldly, crossing my arms over my chest, my gaze hard. “She’s six feet tall, has a birthmark just below her left ear, and blue eyes. You—you’re nothing like her.”

My blood was boiling. This imposter had the nerve to think she could outsmart us. I’d seen my fair share of con artists, but this one took the cake.

Braxton held out the photos towards the bars, letting her see the undeniable truth. “Care to explain?”

The figure inside the cell stood upright, her green eyes glaring back at us, her body tense and ready for defense. The photos in Braxton’s hand were held out towards her, an obvious accusation.

“Guys, we don’t know her story yet. Let’s listen,” Sebastian interjected, but there was an edge to his calmness now.

Always the voice of reason, Sebastian. Sometimes I wondered if he had ice water in his veins instead of blood. But right now, his cool head was just pissing me off.

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