Chapter 47 Twin Switch

Chapter 47 Twin Switch


POV: Elizabeth

Jessica thought it was the worst idea she'd ever heard.

"Absolutely not," she said from her hospital bed at Sterling Medical Center, her voice still weak but her disapproval crystal clear. "You'll get yourself killed."

"I've already nearly been killed four times. What's one more?"

"That's not funny, Lizzie."

"It wasn't meant to be." I pulled a chair close to her bed. "Jess, we have forty eight hours before the board reconvenes. If we can get Crane and his investors to withdraw their financial support from Helen, the takeover collapses. And the best person to approach Crane is someone who worked from inside Helen's operation."

"Then find someone who actually did."

"Patricia Chambers is in federal custody. Her immunity deal restricts what she can do publicly." I took Jessica's hand. "You're the only other person who fits. You were inside the operation. You know details, names, numbers. Crane will believe you."

"I'm in a hospital bed."

"Which is why I need to be you."

Jessica stared at me for a long moment. "You don't know how to be me."

"Then teach me."

What followed was three hours of intense coaching.

Jessica talked while I listened, memorizing — her way of tilting her head when she was being charming, the way she laughed, fuller and louder than mine, how she used people's names frequently in conversation to make them feel seen. She walked me through the specific details of her meetings with Helen's associates, the terminology she'd learned, the names of contacts she'd dealt with.

Marcus sat in the corner taking notes, fact-checking against his own research files. Royce stood by the window looking increasingly unhappy.

"This is dangerous," he said for the fourth time.

"Everything we've done is dangerous," I said without looking up from Jessica's briefing. "Jess, tell me again about the shell company structure."

"Apex Holdings is the primary vehicle. Crane's investment group went in through a subsidiary called Pacific Bridge Investments. Helen kept separate books for each investor so none of them knew how much the others had committed." Jessica paused, coughing. "She was always afraid someone would compare notes and realize she was promising the same percentages to multiple parties."

"She was running a shell game," Marcus said.

"Essentially. But sophisticated enough that individual investors couldn't see the whole picture." Jessica looked at me seriously. "If you're approaching Crane as me, you need to tell him about the Pacific Bridge. It's specific enough to prove you were actually inside the operation."

"Pacific Bridge Investments," I repeated. "Got it."

The physical transformation took another two hours.

Jessica's clothes were brought from her apartment: a sharply tailored pantsuit in deep burgundy that she'd worn to exactly one meeting with Crane's associate — the kind of outfit people remembered.

The makeup was the real challenge. My surgical scar from the bullet wound was visible near my collarbone. Jessica had no such scar. I spent forty minutes with a makeup artist Marcus had arranged until it disappeared completely.

Then Jessica's hairstyle, her bolder eye makeup, her preferred perfume.

When I finally looked in the mirror, I almost frightened myself.

"That's deeply unsettling," Marcus said.

Jessica studied me from her bed with an unreadable expression. "Your eyes are softer than mine. Even when you're trying to look confident, you look kind. I don't always look kind."

"So how do I fix that?"

"Lift your chin slightly. Think about something that made you angry recently. Not sad, angry. Channel that."

She demonstrated from her bed, her expression shifting subtly but powerfully into something more self-assured and slightly harder.

I tried it. Thought about Helen drugging Jessica's IV, about Gregory Walsh sitting in Royce's chair, about the white rose on my bed.

"Better," Jessica said. "That's close enough."

Royce walked me to the car outside. He held my face in his hands, studying the transformation with an expression caught between admiration and dread.

"You look like her," he admitted quietly. "It's remarkable."

"That's the point."

"Elizabeth." His hands tightened gently. "If anything feels wrong, if anything at all feels off, you walk away. You don't improvise, you don't try to fix it. You just leave. Promise me."

"I promise."

He kissed me once, firm and brief, then stepped back. "I'll be in a car outside the club with Marcus on comms. The moment you have what we need, you signal and we're done."

"Simple."

"Nothing about this is simple."

\---

The Meridian Club was the kind of establishment where old money felt comfortable. Dark wood paneling, leather chairs, the smell of cigars and privilege. Members only, strict dress code — the sort of discretion that made it ideal for conversations people didn't want witnessed.

I walked in as Jessica Wakefield.

The concierge confirmed that Donald Crane was expecting a visitor. I was shown to a private room at the rear where Crane sat with two associates, all three wearing the measured expressions of men who've heard too many pitches to be easily impressed.

Crane was sixty, silver-haired, built like someone who'd played competitive sports and never quite stopped. His eyes assessed me immediately.

"Miss Wakefield," he said. "Sit down."

I sat, crossing my legs the way Jessica had shown me. Chin slightly up. Anger channeled into confidence.

"Mr. Crane. Thank you for seeing me."

"I agreed to this meeting because your name is attached to information I find interesting. But I want to be clear." He leaned forward. "I don't do business with people who waste my time."

"I won't waste it." I placed a folder on the table. "Pacific Bridge Investments. Your subsidiary used to channel forty million dollars into Helen Morrison's takeover fund. Forty million that's currently at significant legal risk because Helen has been operating a fraudulent investment scheme that keeps parallel books for each contributor."

Crane's expression didn't change, but something shifted behind his eyes.

"Continue."

"Helen promised you fourteen percent returns tied to the Sterling Corp acquisition. She promised her other major contributors the same percentages. The mathematics don't work unless she's planning to dilute everyone's stake after the acquisition closes." I tapped the folder. "I was inside her operation. I saw the real books. What you were shown and what actually exists are very different documents."

One of Crane's associates reached for the folder. I let him take it. Marcus had prepared documentation carefully enough to be compelling without being legally compromising.

"Why are you coming to us?" Crane's voice was careful. "What do you want?"

"I want out. I want immunity and I want distance from Helen Morrison before federal investigators connect everyone who touched this operation." I met his eyes. "I also want to testify. Against Helen, against the board members she bribed, against the whole structure. In exchange, I need someone with your influence to confirm that financial backing for the Sterling Corp acquisition is being withdrawn."

Crane studied me.

"If what you're claiming is accurate…"

"It's accurate. Every number in that folder can be verified."

"I'll need to verify it independently before making any decisions." He closed the folder. "But I'm willing to hear more. There's a meeting tomorrow morning. Helen Morrison is presenting acquisition updates to the investor group. I want you there."

My heart accelerated. This was further than I'd expected to get.

"A meeting with Helen present?"

"If your information is what you claim, confronting her directly with a credible witness is the most efficient way to expose the discrepancy." Crane's eyes were calculating. "Unless you're not as certain of your facts as you claim."

"I'm certain," I said, and my voice only wavered slightly.

"Good. Tomorrow, nine AM. Morrison Industries conference room." Crane stood. "Don't be late, Miss Wakefield."

\---

I walked out of the Meridian Club feeling dangerously close to triumph.

The feeling lasted until the elevator opened at the Morrison Industries lobby the next morning.

I walked in wearing Jessica's burgundy suit, chin lifted, confidence carefully constructed.

The conference room was already occupied. Crane and four investors sat along one side of the table. Helen stood at the head, impeccably dressed as always.

She turned when I entered.

Her eyes took me in once, slowly, from head to toe. Something flickered across her face that I couldn't read.

Then she smiled.

Not a surprised smile. Not a caught smile.

A smile of someone who'd been waiting.

"Nice try, Elizabeth," Helen said, her voice warm with amusement. "But I know my enemy's girlfriend when I see her." She tilted her head, almost admiringly. "Did you really think I wouldn't notice Jessica is still in the hospital?"

The room went completely silent.

Crane's eyes moved between me and Helen with sharp, dangerous interest.

And the exit was very far away.