THE OTHER MRS. HARRIS

A Deborah Original

Chapter One — His Wife

“The truth does not always knock before entering your life. Sometimes it calls from an unknown number.”

Danielle Harris almost didn’t answer the phone.

It rang at 6:42 on a Wednesday evening while she stood in the kitchen trying to decide whether the chicken needed another ten minutes in the oven.

Her husband was away again.

Chicago this time.

Or at least that was what Marcus had told her.

He had kissed her forehead before leaving early Monday morning, rolled his suitcase through the front door, and promised he would be home by Thursday evening.

“Don’t make plans for Friday,” he’d said.

“Why?”

“Because I’m taking my wife to dinner.”

She had smiled.

“Your wife might have plans.”

“Cancel them.”

“Bossy.”

“You love it.”

“Sometimes.”

He had pulled her against him.

“Eleven years and you’re still pretending you don’t.”

Those were the last words he had spoken to her in person.

Now, two days later, an unfamiliar number flashed across her phone.

Danielle wiped her hands and answered.

“Hello?”

“May I speak with Danielle Harris?”

“This is she.”

“Mrs. Harris, my name is Rebecca. I’m calling from St. Matthew’s Medical Center.”

Danielle’s hand tightened around the phone.

Hospitals never called with good news.

“Is something wrong?”

“Do you know a Marcus Harris?”

Her heart lurched.

“He’s my husband.”

There was a brief pause.

“Mrs. Harris, your husband was brought into our emergency department earlier this afternoon.”

The kitchen seemed to tilt.

“What happened?”

“He was involved in a motor vehicle accident.”

Danielle gripped the counter.

“Is he alive?”

“Yes.”

The word came quickly.

She closed her eyes.

“Thank God.”

“But he has sustained significant injuries. He’s stable, but the physician would like to speak with his family.”

“I’m coming.”

She reached for her purse.

“Which hospital did you say?”

Rebecca repeated the information.

Danielle stopped.

“I’m sorry. Where?”

The hospital wasn’t in Chicago.

It was less than forty miles from their home.

“Are you sure you have the right Marcus Harris?”

Rebecca confirmed his date of birth.

Danielle knew immediately.

It was him.

“But he’s in Chicago.”

Another pause.

“I can only tell you that Mr. Harris was transported to our facility following an accident locally.”

Locally.

Danielle stared at the suitcase-sized empty space beside the kitchen door where Marcus’s luggage had been Monday morning.

“Mrs. Harris?”

“I’m here.”

“Is someone able to drive you?”

“I’m fine.”

She wasn’t.

But she was already grabbing her keys.

---

Danielle remembered almost nothing about the drive.

She remembered red lights.

A horn behind her.

Her mother’s voice on speakerphone telling her to slow down.

And one thought repeating itself.

Why was Marcus here?

Maybe the trip had been canceled.

Maybe he had returned early and planned to surprise her.

Maybe there had been a meeting nearby.

Maybe—

She stopped herself.

Marcus had explanations for everything.

That had always been one of the things she admired about him.

He was organized.

Prepared.

Dependable.

The kind of man who checked flight times twice and kept printed copies of hotel confirmations even though everything was on his phone.

Eleven years of marriage had taught Danielle his habits.

Or she believed it had.

She parked badly and left the car crooked between two lines.

Inside the emergency department, she hurried toward reception.

“My husband was brought in after an accident. Marcus Harris.”

The receptionist typed.

“Your name?”

“Danielle Harris.”

“Relationship?”

“Wife.”

The word came naturally.

It had belonged to her for eleven years.

The receptionist’s fingers stopped.

She looked at the screen.

Then at Danielle.

“One moment.”

Something about her expression made Danielle’s stomach tighten.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, ma’am. Just one moment.”

She picked up the telephone.

Danielle waited.

Thirty seconds.

A minute.

Two.

Finally, a nurse appeared.

“Mrs. Harris?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Rebecca. We spoke on the phone.”

“Can I see him?”

“He’s been moved upstairs.”

“Is he conscious?”

“He’s been in and out.”

“What happened?”

“The physician can explain his injuries. Come with me.”

Danielle followed.

They entered an elevator.

Rebecca pressed five.

“Was he driving?” Danielle asked.

“Yes.”

“Was anyone else hurt?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Where did the accident happen?”

Rebecca named a road.

Danielle knew it.

It was in the opposite direction from the airport.

Her mind began moving faster.

“What car was he driving?”

Rebecca hesitated.

“I don’t have that information.”

Danielle nodded.

She was asking the wrong person.

Marcus would explain.

He always explained.

The elevator opened.

---

The fifth floor was quieter.

Rebecca led her through a set of double doors.

“He’s in room 518.”

Danielle’s legs weakened slightly.

“Can I go in?”

“The doctor will speak with you first.”

“Why?”

“It’s standard.”

But Rebecca’s voice had changed.

Danielle noticed.

She noticed everything now.

They turned a corner.

A woman sat outside room 518.

Danielle slowed.

She was perhaps in her late thirties.

Beautiful.

Dark hair pulled into a loose bun.

Jeans.

Cream sweater.

No makeup that Danielle could see.

Her eyes were swollen from crying.

Beside her sat a handbag and a man’s suit jacket.

Marcus’s suit jacket.

Danielle recognized it instantly.

She had bought it for his birthday.

The woman looked up.

Their eyes met.

Danielle stopped.

The woman stood.

Rebecca stopped too.

For a moment, nobody spoke.

Then the woman looked at the nurse.

“Is there an update?”

Rebecca’s expression became strained.

“The doctor is coming.”

The woman nodded.

Then looked at Danielle.

“Are you from the insurance company?”

Danielle almost laughed.

“No.”

“Family?”

Danielle stared at Marcus’s jacket.

“Yes.”

The woman seemed relieved.

“Oh. Are you Marcus’s sister?”

Something cold entered Danielle’s chest.

“No.”

The woman waited.

Danielle looked directly at her.

“I’m his wife.”

The woman’s face changed.

Not anger.

Not guilt.

Confusion.

“What?”

Danielle’s heartbeat became deafening.

“I said I’m Marcus’s wife.”

The woman shook her head.

Slowly.

“No.”

Danielle felt Rebecca move beside her.

The woman stepped closer.

“I’m sorry. Who are you?”

“Danielle Harris.”

The woman’s lips parted.

She looked toward room 518.

Then back at Danielle.

“No.”

She said it again, but this time the word sounded frightened.

Danielle’s voice hardened.

“Who are you?”

The woman didn’t answer immediately.

Then she lifted her left hand.

A diamond ring caught the fluorescent light.

“My name is Simone.”

Danielle stared at the ring.

Simone swallowed.

“And Marcus Harris is my husband.”

---

For eleven years, Danielle had known exactly who she was.

That certainty disappeared in less than ten seconds.

She looked at Rebecca.

“This woman is confused.”

Simone’s eyes widened.

“I’m confused?”

“My husband and I have been married eleven years.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because Marcus and I have been married for seven.”

Silence.

Rebecca stepped forward.

“Perhaps we should move somewhere private.”

“No.”

Both women said it simultaneously.

Danielle looked at Simone.

Seven years.

Seven.

She mentally traveled backward through her marriage.

Seven years ago, Marcus had started expanding his consulting business.

Seven years ago, the travel had increased.

Seven years ago, he had begun spending two or three nights away most weeks.

Client meetings.

Conferences.

Site visits.

Chicago.

Charlotte.

Nashville.

Dallas.

Danielle suddenly felt nauseated.

Simone reached into her handbag.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m getting my phone.”

She opened her photographs.

Then turned the screen toward Danielle.

A wedding.

Marcus.

Smiling.

Wearing a dark suit.

Simone beside him in white.

Danielle couldn’t breathe.

“No.”

She took the phone.

The photograph was real.

Or looked real.

Marcus kissing Simone beneath an arch covered in flowers.

Another photograph.

Marcus cutting a wedding cake.

Another.

Marcus dancing.

Another.

Marcus with people Danielle had never seen.

Danielle handed the phone back.

“That’s not possible.”

Simone’s voice shook.

“Show me yours.”

“What?”

“Show me your wedding.”

Danielle stared at her.

Then opened her own photographs.

It took seconds to find one.

Marcus and Danielle.

Eleven years earlier.

Church.

Family.

Friends.

Vows.

Cake.

Marcus wearing a different suit but the same smile.

Simone sank into the chair.

“Oh my God.”

Danielle couldn’t sit.

If she sat, she wasn’t sure she would stand again.

Rebecca spoke softly.

“I’m going to get the physician.”

Neither woman responded.

They were alone.

Two wives.

One husband.

One hospital room.

And a life neither of them understood anymore.

Danielle finally whispered:

“Where do you live?”

Simone looked up.

“Why?”

“Answer me.”

She named a neighborhood.

Danielle knew it.

Twenty-five minutes from her house.

Not another state.

Not another city.

Twenty-five minutes.

“Does he live with you?”

Simone’s expression hardened.

“Of course he lives with me.”

Danielle almost screamed.

Instead she laughed.

A short, broken sound.

“No.”

“He does.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“His clothes are in my house.”

“His clothes are in my house.”

“His office is upstairs.”

“His office is in our basement.”

“He sleeps beside me.”

Danielle stopped.

So did Simone.

That sentence was different.

Personal.

Violating.

Real.

Danielle looked away.

For eleven years, Marcus had slept beside her.

Except when he traveled.

Except when he worked late.

Except when—

Her stomach turned.

“Does he have children with you?”

Simone’s face changed.

And Danielle knew before she answered.

“Yes.”

The corridor seemed to disappear.

“How many?”

“Two.”

Danielle closed her eyes.

Marcus had children.

Children she did not know existed.

She opened her eyes.

“How old?”

Simone hesitated.

“Six and four.”

Danielle pressed a hand against the wall.

Six.

Four.

She thought about birthdays.

Christmas mornings.

Family vacations.

Marcus leaving for “emergency meetings.”

There had been another family waiting for him.

The door to room 518 opened.

A doctor stepped into the hallway.

“Family of Marcus Harris?”

Danielle turned.

Simone stood.

And once again, both women answered.

“I’m his wife.”

The doctor froze.

---

Chapter Two — Seven Years

“A lie told long enough doesn’t become truth. It simply becomes architecture—and eventually, someone discovers the hidden rooms.”

They moved the conversation into a private waiting room.

The doctor wisely did not ask questions.

He explained that Marcus had suffered a fractured leg, several broken ribs, and a concussion. There was no evidence of spinal injury or internal bleeding requiring surgery.

“He was fortunate.”

Danielle almost laughed.

Fortunate.

Marcus Harris had two wives sitting twenty feet apart and neither one had killed him.

Yet.

“He may be confused when he wakes,” the doctor continued. “That’s normal with a concussion.”

Simone asked the medical questions.

Danielle listened.

She was watching Simone.

The woman knew Marcus’s allergies.

His medications.

His previous knee surgery.

His father’s heart condition.

When the doctor asked about Marcus’s primary physician, both women gave different names.

The doctor stopped writing.

Danielle stared at Simone.

Simone stared back.

Different doctors.

Of course.

Two lives required two versions of everything.

---

When the doctor left, neither woman moved.

Finally Simone said, “I want to see your marriage certificate.”

Danielle almost admired the nerve.

“You think I carry it?”

“I need proof.”

“So do I.”

Simone reached for her phone.

“My sister can go to my house.”

“Good.”

Danielle called her mother.

“Mama, I need you to do something for me.”

Her mother’s voice immediately changed.

“What’s wrong?”

“I need you to go into the file cabinet in my office.”

“For what?”

“My marriage certificate.”

Silence.

“Danielle?”

“Please.”

“Why do you need—”

“Mama.”

Her voice cracked.

“Please.”

Her mother stopped asking questions.

---

Forty minutes later, two photographs arrived.

Danielle enlarged Simone’s.

MARCUS ANDREW HARRIS

Same date of birth.

Same parents.

Same man.

She looked at the marriage date.

Seven years earlier.

Her own certificate sat open on her phone.

Eleven years earlier.

Simone leaned over.

“Yours came first.”

The words sounded almost ridiculous.

As though they were comparing receipts.

Danielle stared at her.

“Yes.”

Simone’s eyes filled.

“Then what does that make me?”

Danielle had been too angry to consider it.

If Marcus had legally married Danielle and they had never divorced, what exactly had happened seven years ago?

“I don’t know.”

Simone covered her mouth.

“My children.”

Danielle’s anger shifted.

Not disappeared.

Shifted.

The children hadn’t done anything.

Neither had Simone, if she truly hadn’t known.

“Did you know about me?”

Simone looked offended.

“No.”

“Did you know he’d been married?”

“He said he was divorced.”

Danielle closed her eyes.

Of course he did.

“What did he tell you about his ex-wife?”

Simone hesitated.

“That she was controlling.”

Danielle laughed.

It wasn’t funny.

“He said she didn’t support him. That she made everything about money.”

Danielle stared at the floor.

Money.

She had paid bills when Marcus’s business struggled.

She had covered the mortgage.

Health insurance.

Groceries.

She had lent him money she never saw again.

And somewhere, he had transformed her support into control.

“What else?”

Simone looked uncomfortable.

“He said the marriage ended emotionally years before the divorce.”

“What divorce?”

“I know that now.”

“No. Tell me. What divorce did he show you?”

Simone frowned.

“He showed me papers.”

Danielle looked up.

“What papers?”

“Divorce papers.”

“Signed by a judge?”

“I don’t know.”

“You married a man without verifying he was divorced?”

Simone stood.

“I loved him.”

“So did I!”

The words exploded from Danielle.

Silence followed.

Simone sat again.

Both women began crying.

Not together.

Not for each other.

For themselves.

For the lives they had been living while Marcus moved between them.

---

By midnight, they had begun comparing calendars.

It was unbearable.

Danielle opened photographs.

“Last Christmas.”

Marcus beside her tree.

Simone checked her phone.

“He came to us Christmas afternoon.”

Thanksgiving.

Danielle had him in the morning.

Simone had him that evening.

Birthdays.

Anniversaries.

Vacations.

Business trips.

One family always received the explanation required to make the other possible.

“He told me his mother was sick that weekend,” Simone said.

“She wasn’t.”

“He went to Jamaica.”

“No.”

Danielle found the photograph.

“He was with me.”

Simone looked away.

Every answer killed another memory.

---

Then Simone asked:

“Where was he last night?”

Danielle checked herself.

“Chicago.”

“No.”

“That’s what he told me.”

“He was home.”

Danielle looked at her.

“With you?”

“Until this morning.”

“Then where was he going?”

Simone hesitated.

“He said he had a meeting.”

Danielle stood.

“What?”

“He left around nine.”

“The accident happened after two.”

Both women became still.

Five hours.

Marcus had not been with Danielle.

He had not been with Simone.

He had not been traveling to Chicago.

Where had he been?

Danielle slowly sat.

“There isn’t just another marriage.”

Simone looked at her.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying we still don’t know where he was.”

---

A nurse appeared shortly after one in the morning.

“Mr. Harris is awake.”

Both women stood.

The nurse hesitated.

“He can have one visitor.”

Danielle and Simone looked at each other.

“I’m going,” Danielle said.

Simone folded her arms.

“Why?”

“Because I’m his legal wife.”

The words landed harder than Danielle intended.

Simone’s face crumpled slightly.

Danielle immediately regretted them.

Not because they weren’t true.

Because Simone had just discovered her marriage might not be.

Danielle exhaled.

“You go.”

Simone looked surprised.

“What?”

“You have children who need to know their father is alive.”

Simone’s eyes softened.

“No.”

She shook her head.

“We go together.”

The nurse looked uncomfortable.

“Hospital policy—”

“Please,” Simone said.

Something in her voice worked.

The nurse sighed.

“Five minutes.”

---

Marcus looked smaller in the hospital bed.

Bruised.

Bandaged.

Vulnerable.

For eleven years, Danielle had believed she knew that face better than anyone.

Then Marcus opened his eyes.

He saw Danielle first.

His expression changed.

“Danielle?”

She said nothing.

Then his eyes moved.

He saw Simone.

The monitor beside him began beeping faster.

Simone stepped closer.

“Hello, Marcus.”

His eyes darted between them.

Danielle watched the truth arrive on his face.

Not confusion.

Recognition.

Fear.

He knew exactly what had happened.

Danielle folded her arms.

“Chicago?”

Marcus closed his eyes.

“Danielle—”

“No.”

Simone moved beside her.

Marcus looked at Simone.

“Baby—”

“Don’t.”

Simone’s voice was ice.

The two women stood side by side.

Marcus opened his mouth.

No explanation came.

Danielle had imagined that if she ever discovered her husband cheating, she would scream.

Throw something.

Demand answers.

Instead, she felt strangely calm.

“How long?”

Marcus swallowed.

His lips moved.

Then he whispered:

“It’s complicated.”

Danielle laughed.

Simone did too.

Neither laugh contained humor.

Danielle leaned closer.

“No, Marcus.”

She looked at Simone.

Then back at him.

“What’s complicated is that your two wives just spent six hours comparing our marriages.”

His face drained of color.

“And here’s the interesting part.”

Danielle lowered her voice.

“We found five hours today that neither one of us can account for.”

Marcus stared at her.

For the first time, something other than guilt appeared in his eyes.

Fear.

Real fear.

Danielle noticed.

So did Simone.

“What happened during those five hours?” Simone asked.

Marcus turned away.

Danielle’s heart began pounding.

“Where were you?”

He refused to answer.

And suddenly, Danielle understood.

Whatever Marcus had been hiding from his two wives—

they still hadn’t found the biggest secret.

---

Chapter Three — The Third Address

“Once a lie begins unraveling, the most frightening question isn’t what you’ve discovered. It’s what you haven’t.”

Marcus refused to talk.

Not couldn’t.

Refused.

He blamed medication.

Pain.

The concussion.

Exhaustion.

But Danielle had been married to him for eleven years.

She knew avoidance when she saw it.

Or she thought she did.

That sentence had become dangerous now.

I know Marcus.

She no longer knew what those words meant.

---

At two-thirty in the morning, Danielle and Simone sat in the hospital cafeteria.

Two untouched cups of coffee cooled between them.

“This is insane,” Simone whispered.

Danielle stared at the table.

“Yes.”

“I should hate you.”

Danielle looked up.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Simone rubbed her forehead.

“Because you’re his wife.”

“So are you.”

“Apparently I’m not.”

Danielle didn’t answer.

Simone looked away.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For seven years.”

“You didn’t know.”

“I should have.”

Danielle understood that instinct.

The desperate need to find some point where you could blame yourself.

Because if you missed something, maybe the world still made sense.

“I didn’t know either.”

“You had eleven years.”

Danielle almost smiled.

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know.”

Simone covered her face.

“I’m not thinking properly.”

“Neither am I.”

They sat quietly.

Then Danielle’s phone vibrated.

Her mother.

I’m awake. Call me whenever you’re ready.

Danielle couldn’t.

Not yet.

How did you tell your mother that your husband had another wife?

How did you explain something you couldn’t understand yourself?

---

Simone suddenly looked up.

“The car.”

“What?”

“The accident.”

“What about it?”

“Whose car was he driving?”

Danielle remembered asking the nurse.

“I don’t know.”

Simone grabbed her phone.

“I drove here. Marcus’s car is at home.”

Danielle’s pulse quickened.

“He didn’t take yours?”

“No.”

“Mine is at my house.”

They looked at each other.

Neither spoke.

Then both stood.

---

Hospital security directed them to the police officer who had handled the accident.

He was preparing to leave.

“Marcus Harris?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Danielle stepped forward.

“What vehicle was he driving?”

The officer checked his notes.

“A silver Lexus.”

Danielle shook her head.

“He doesn’t own a Lexus.”

Simone’s face had gone pale.

“Neither do I.”

The officer looked between them.

“Are you family?”

Danielle almost laughed.

“That’s becoming a complicated question.”

He frowned.

“The vehicle is registered to a woman.”

Danielle’s heartbeat accelerated.

“What woman?”

He checked again.

“Celeste Warren.”

Simone whispered, “Who’s Celeste?”

Danielle shook her head.

“I don’t know.”

The officer looked at them.

“She lives on Brookhaven Terrace.”

Danielle froze.

She knew the area.

Marcus had mentioned it before.

A client.

That was what he’d said.

A client whose project required repeated visits.

Danielle pulled out her phone.

“What’s the address?”

The officer hesitated.

“I can’t give you information beyond what’s in the accident report.”

“Is the report public?”

“You can request a copy.”

Simone stepped forward.

“Officer, our husband was driving another woman’s car.”

The officer looked at Danielle.

Then Simone.

“Your husband?”

“Both of us,” Danielle said.

The officer blinked.

Danielle nodded.

“Exactly.”

---

They got the address another way.

Marcus’s personal belongings had been given to Danielle as his legal next of kin.

Wallet.

Watch.

Damaged phone.

Keys.

A folded receipt.

Danielle nearly threw the receipt away.

Then she saw the address.

Brookhaven Terrace.

Grocery delivery.

Two days earlier.

Marcus’s credit card.

Danielle showed Simone.

“That’s where we’re going.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“It’s almost four in the morning.”

“I don’t care.”

Simone stared at her.

Then picked up her handbag.

“Neither do I.”

---

They drove separately.

Danielle followed Simone through nearly empty streets.

Her exhaustion had disappeared.

Fear had replaced it.

She kept imagining possibilities.

Another woman.

Another affair.

Another wife.

Could a man maintain three families?

The question would have sounded absurd yesterday.

Yesterday was dead.

---

Brookhaven Terrace was a quiet residential street.

They slowed near the address.

A small brick house stood beneath a large oak tree.

The porch light was on.

Silver Lexus absent.

Of course.

It had been towed after the accident.

Danielle parked.

Simone pulled in behind her.

They stood beside the curb.

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this,” Simone whispered.

Danielle looked at her.

“You’re the one who wanted proof.”

“That was before I found out I was wife number two.”

Danielle walked toward the house.

Simone followed.

Halfway up the path, the porch light switched off.

Both women stopped.

Someone was awake.

Danielle’s heart hammered.

She knocked.

Nothing.

She knocked again.

A curtain moved.

Then the door opened slightly.

A woman stood behind it.

She was older than Danielle expected.

Perhaps fifty.

Elegant.

Calm.

Not startled enough.

Danielle immediately noticed that.

The woman looked at Danielle.

Then Simone.

Her expression changed.

Not confusion.

Recognition.

“You must be Danielle.”

Danielle’s blood went cold.

Simone stepped forward.

“You know who she is?”

The woman looked at her.

“And you’re Simone.”

Nobody moved.

Danielle’s voice barely worked.

“Who are you?”

The woman opened the door wider.

“Celeste.”

Danielle stared at her.

“How do you know our names?”

Celeste looked toward the street.

Then back at them.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Our husband was driving your car.”

Celeste’s face tightened.

“I know.”

“You know?”

“The police called.”

Simone stepped closer.

“What is Marcus to you?”

Celeste didn’t answer.

Danielle’s patience snapped.

“Are you sleeping with my husband?”

Celeste almost smiled.

Not mockingly.

Sadly.

“No.”

“Then who are you?”

Celeste looked at both women for a long moment.

Finally she stepped aside.

“You’d better come in.”

---

The house was immaculate.

Too immaculate.

No family photographs.

No clutter.

No shoes near the entrance.

It felt temporary.

Like somewhere used rather than lived in.

Celeste led them into the kitchen.

Danielle noticed three coffee cups beside the sink.

“Was Marcus here yesterday?”

Celeste stopped.

“Yes.”

“For five hours?”

Celeste didn’t answer.

Simone slammed her handbag onto the counter.

“I am done with people not answering questions.”

Celeste turned.

“You think the worst thing Marcus has done is marry both of you.”

Danielle stared at her.

“That’s a pretty significant thing.”

“I know.”

“Then tell us what could possibly be worse.”

Celeste walked toward a cabinet.

She removed a large envelope.

Then placed it on the table.

Marcus’s name was written across the front.

Danielle didn’t touch it.

“What is that?”

“Something he was supposed to take with him yesterday.”

“What’s inside?”

Celeste looked at her.

“Proof.”

“Of what?”

Celeste’s eyes moved between the women.

“That Marcus Harris isn’t who either of you thinks he is.”

Simone laughed bitterly.

“We’ve established that.”

“No.”

Celeste shook her head.

“You haven’t.”

She pushed the envelope toward Danielle.

Danielle opened it.

Inside were copies of identification documents.

Bank records.

Property documents.

Several photographs.

And another marriage certificate.

Danielle stopped breathing.

Simone leaned over.

“Oh my God.”

But something was wrong.

The groom wasn’t Marcus.

Not exactly.

The photograph looked like him.

The date of birth matched.

The face matched.

But the name didn’t.

Danielle read it aloud.

“Michael Anthony Harris.”

Simone looked at Celeste.

“Who is Michael?”

Celeste’s expression became unreadable.

Danielle turned another document.

A death certificate.

MICHAEL ANTHONY HARRIS.

She stared at the date.

Fifteen years earlier.

“What is this?”

Celeste pulled out a chair.

“You need to understand something before I tell you the rest.”

Danielle could barely hear her over her heartbeat.

“Marcus had a brother?”

Celeste looked directly at her.

“Yes.”

“A twin?”

Celeste nodded.

Simone sat down.

Danielle remained standing.

“Then why does Marcus have documents with his dead brother’s name?”

Celeste’s eyes filled with something Danielle couldn’t identify.

Fear.

Guilt.

Perhaps both.

“Because after Michael died…”

She stopped.

Danielle waited.

Celeste swallowed.

“Marcus didn’t just bury his brother.”

The room became completely still.

“He started using his life.”

Danielle stared at the documents.

Two names.

One face.

Two wives.

Two families.

And now a dead twin whose identity had somehow become tangled with the man she had slept beside for eleven years.

Her phone vibrated.

Unknown number.

Danielle almost ignored it.

Then a message appeared.

Mrs. Harris, this is Detective Alvarez. I need you to contact me immediately regarding your husband’s accident. Please do not remove or destroy any property recovered from the vehicle.

A second message arrived before she could respond.

This may no longer be treated as a routine traffic accident.

Danielle slowly raised her eyes to Celeste.

“What exactly was Marcus doing here yesterday?”

Celeste looked at the envelope.

Then at Danielle.

“He came because somebody found out.”

“Found out what?”

Celeste’s voice dropped.

“That one of the Harris brothers may have been buried under the wrong name.”

Danielle stopped breathing.

Simone whispered:

“What does that mean?”

Celeste answered with four words that changed everything.

“Marcus may be Michael.”

---

End of Chapter Three

End of Complimentary Preview

For eleven years, Danielle believed she knew the man sleeping beside her.

Then she discovered another wife.

Another family.

Another name.

And a death certificate that raises an impossible question:

Who did Danielle Harris actually marry?

Unlock The Other Mrs. Harris to continue with Chapter Four: The Brother in the Grave.