The garage door slammed behind him, leaving me alone with the smell of motor oil and my own regrets. Through the window, I watched his car disappear down the street, taking with it any hope of an easy solution. I picked up the radio again, my hands steadier now, despite the turmoil in my chest. Sarah’s picture smiled at me from the workbench, my compass for thirty-five years of marriage, silent now when I needed her wisdom most.
But I knew what she’d say. She’d tell me to protect our boy, no matter the cost. If words wouldn’t convince him, evidence would. And I knew exactly who to call.
Three sleepless nights had passed since Benjamin stormed out of my workshop. I’d spent those dark hours staring at the ceiling, weighing my options, and mentally cataloging contacts from my army intelligence days. Most were retired, now scattered across the country, but a few still worked in government positions where they might prove useful.
Maria Santos topped that list. We’d served together in the ’80s, back when intelligence work meant more shoe leather than computer screens. She’d been sharp then, the kind of analyst who could spot patterns others missed.
And according to LinkedIn, she now worked for Immigration and Customs Enforcement. If anyone could help me dig into Grace Zhang’s background quietly, it would be Maria.
Murphy’s Cafe sat just off Route 1, close enough to the Pentagon to attract the lunch crowd of contractors and government workers. I arrived early, claiming a corner booth where we could talk without being overheard. The familiar weight of conducting clandestine business settled over me like an old coat. Maria walked in at exactly 11:30, her silver hair shorter than I remembered, but her posture still military straight.
She spotted me immediately. Old habits die hard in our line of work. «Gideon Thorne,» she said, sliding into the booth opposite me.
«When I got your call, I thought someone was playing a prank. Thirty years, and suddenly you need a favor.»
«I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, Maria. It’s about Benjamin.»
Her expression softened. She’d attended Benjamin’s high school graduation and sent cards every Christmas. In the intelligence community, work relationships often became family bonds. «What’s wrong? Is he in trouble?»
«Not yet, but I think he might be.» I pulled out my phone, showing her the photos Benjamin had shared from his dinner dates with Grace. «He’s engaged to this woman, Grace Zhang. Something feels off about her and her family.»
Maria studied the images, her trained eyes taking in details I’d probably missed. «What kind of off?»
I chose my words carefully. «Inconsistencies in their behavior. The way they interact doesn’t feel natural, more like they’re performing roles than being themselves.»
«And some things they’ve said.» I paused, unable to reveal my linguistic advantage. «My instincts are screaming that something’s wrong.»
«Your instincts were always solid,» Maria said, handing back the phone. «What do you need?»
«Background checks on all three of them. Grace Zhang, Thomas, and Elizabeth Zhang. They claim to be from Beijing originally, but now live in Fairfax. I need to know if they are who they say they are.»
Maria nodded slowly. «Immigration status, employment history, family connections… the full workup. I can run them through our databases, cross-reference with State Department records. It’ll take a few days to be thorough.»
I slid a piece of paper across the table with their basic information: names, approximate ages, the address Benjamin had given me. «I’ve got photos, social media profiles… anything else you might need.»
«This stays between us,» Maria said, pocketing the paper. «If I find something and it goes legal, you didn’t hear it from me first.»
«Understood.»
She studied my face for a long moment. «Gideon, I’ve seen you handle dangerous situations with ice in your veins. Right now, you look like a man who’s genuinely worried. What aren’t you telling me?»
I met her gaze steadily. «That my son is head over heels in love with someone who might be using him. And if I’m right, it’s going to destroy him.»
Maria’s expression grew serious. «I’ll start running the checks this afternoon. Give me 72 hours.»
We shook hands outside the cafe, and I watched her disappear into the Pentagon City metro station. For the first time in days, I felt like I was taking action instead of just reacting. The next two days crawled by. I threw myself into repair work, fixing radios and televisions with an intensity that surprised my customers.
Grace visited Benjamin twice during that period, and I forced myself to be cordial when they stopped by the shop. She played her role perfectly: the devoted fiancé meeting her future father-in-law’s friends, asking about family photos, complimenting my work. But I watched her more carefully now, looking for cracks in the facade.
They were there, subtle but present: the way her smile never quite reached her eyes, how she steered conversations away from specific details about her past, the practiced quality of her responses to personal questions. On Thursday evening, my phone buzzed with a text from Maria.
«We need to talk. It’s not good.»
My hands were steady as I called her back, but my heart was racing.
Maria’s call came at 7:30 Friday morning, jarring me from the first decent sleep I’d managed all week. Her voice was grim. «Gideon, you were right to be suspicious. We need to meet immediately,» she said without preamble. «Not Murphy’s. Somewhere more private. The parking garage behind the Marriott on Jefferson Davis Highway.»
The urgency in her voice sent adrenaline coursing through my system. «Level 3, northwest corner. 20 minutes.»
She was waiting by her sedan when I arrived, a thick manila folder tucked under her arm. Her face carried the grim expression I remembered from briefings that had gone sideways. «Get in,» she said, sliding into my truck. «We need to talk where no one can overhear us.»
Maria opened the folder, revealing documents and photographs that made my stomach clench. «Gideon, your instincts were dead on. Grace Zhang isn’t who she claims to be.»
She handed me an ICE database search result. «Her real name is Xu Min. Grace Zhang is a fabricated identity she’s been using for eight months.»
The photograph showed the same face I’d seen across my dinner table, but the name beneath was completely different. «How?»
«Identity theft. The real Grace Zhang died in a car accident in California last year. Somehow, Xu Min obtained her documents and assumed her identity.»
The next revelation hit harder. Maria showed me printouts from Arlington Community Theater’s website: headshots for Thomas Thompson and Elizabeth Miller, listed under «cultural family package, ideal for ceremonies, community events, and immigration photos.»
«They’re not her parents,» I said, the words feeling surreal.
«Professional actors. We contacted them. They admitted being hired by Xu Min for $500 each to play her parents.»
The engagement photos Benjamin showed me…
«Rental studio in San Francisco. Same backdrop we found in four other sample portfolios online. She’s done this before, Gideon.»
The final revelation was devastating. Maria handed me a marriage certificate translated from Chinese. «Xu Min is currently married to Liu Wei in Guangzhou, China.»
«Three years, legally valid. She never divorced him.»
I stared at the document. «Marriage fraud, among other things. Immigration fraud, identity theft, conspiracy… federal crime territory. If she marries Benjamin, she could face 10 years in prison and permanent deportation.»
«And Benjamin? If he’s truly unaware, he’s a victim. But if authorities think he’s complicit…» Maria’s expression was grave. «He could face charges too.»
I organized the documents with military precision. The evidence painted a picture of calculated deception that made my blood run cold. «What’s our next move?»
«Officially, I report this to my supervisors. This suggests a larger operation.» Maria paused. «Unofficially, you need to protect Benjamin.»
«Get him away from her before this explodes.»
«He won’t listen. He thinks I’m prejudiced.»
«Then you need proof he can’t ignore.» Maria gathered the documents. «I can give you copies, but once this goes official, it moves fast.»
«Federal prosecutors don’t mess around with immigration fraud.»
I accepted the folder. Its weight felt heavier than it should. «How long do we have?»
«Maybe a week before the investigation becomes official.» Maria prepared to leave, placing a hand on my shoulder. «I’m sorry, Gideon.»
«I know this isn’t what you wanted to find.»
She was right. Part of me had hoped my suspicions were wrong, that Grace was simply a young woman with poor social skills or cultural differences I’d misinterpreted.
But the evidence was irrefutable. Looking at the documents spread across the table, I realized this was bigger than I thought. Maria’s contact at the FBI worked faster than I’d expected.
By Monday afternoon, I was sitting in a sterile conference room at the Washington field office, facing Special Agent Jennifer Walsh across a metal table covered with the evidence Maria had compiled. Agent Walsh was younger than I’d anticipated, maybe early 40s, with sharp eyes and the kind of focused intensity that reminded me of my best intelligence officers. She’d spent the better part of an hour reviewing every document, asking pointed questions about timeline and verification procedures.
