Page 1 of Tracing Her Stolen Identity
Chapter One
Skylar Sullivan tapped her card against the screen at the pharmacy and waited while the card reader spun. The worddeclinedpopped up on the screen. She frowned. That was weird. Her seven-dollar prescription was not going to drain her bank account.
“Sorry,” she said to the pharmacist, who was patiently waiting for her to pay. She realized they’d close soon, so Skylar hurried to find her cash. “I’ve been gone for two weeks and haven’t used my debit card. The bank must have put a hold on it. I think I have cash.”
“No problem, Skylar. I noticed you haven’t been around. Were you on vacation?”
“A working one,” she answered, digging in the bag under her wheelchair for her wallet. “I decided to get away from it all and drive to Grand Marais to work on my portfolio. The lake always inspires my nature mosaics, so I rented a little cabin on the shore.”
“Well, that sounds like an idyllic place to work, if not a bit chilly for April.”
“You could say that again.” Skylar handed the woman a ten. “I was lucky the cabin had a great fireplace and lots of precut firewood. It was also accessible, which is rare these days.”
The pharmacist smiled and handed her the receipt, change and bag. “I imagine that’s always a consideration, but I’m glad you found a way to finish your work. You know I’m a huge fan.”
“Thanks, Marguerite. I’m keeping my fingers crossed for a gallery showing soon.”
“I’ll cross mine, too!” Marguerite said, twining her fingers together before she waved goodbye. Skylar pushed the hand rims forward to the door, knowing she still had another stop before heading to her duplex in the middle of Duluth, Minnesota.
She’d lived in Duluth her entire life and had no plans to move—ever. Did it suck moving around the Northland in a wheelchair in the middle of January? Yes, but there was nowhere else she wanted to live. Seeing Lake Superior every time she drove down the street was her little piece of heaven. The city had everything she needed, including medical care and accessible housing. The art scene was also hopping, and she had her stained-glass mosaics placed in small galleries around the Northland. She sold out regularly, but they also brought in special orders that kept her afloat as a struggling artist. Her goal was to host an extensive gallery showing in the Twin Cities, but first, she had to have a portfolio to back her up. That was why she’d taken the time away to finish some of her tile mosaics. She needed diverse pieces to draw a crowd in a city the size of Minneapolis, where there were twice as many artists as in Duluth.
She could have stayed another two weeks in that little cabin by the lake working on nature pieces, but her friend needed it for her family. Truthfully, while she loved her time away to finish her work, she’d reached the level ofsolitude she could take. There was never any question that she was the outgoing one in her family. Unlike many artists, she needed human interaction to access her creativity. She’d strike up a conversation with anyone at any given time. That may have something to do with her disability and the fact that most people saw her chair but never sawher. Over the years, she’d learned that the chair melted away when she engaged them in conversation, and they’d see her for who she really was.
A smile tipped her lips as she transferred onto the truck seat and connected the hoist to her chair, using the remote to lift it into the pickup’s bed. She could break the chair down and stow it in the front seat, but that was always a dirty and wet endeavor in the winter. Not only did the truck give her better traction in the snow for driving up and down the hills of Duluth, but the hoist saved her a ton of time, not to mention wear and tear on her chair.
After a quick stop to drop off some things at her friend’s studio that she wouldn’t need at the apartment, she headed toward the bridge, dusk gathering at the lake’s edges to prepare them for bed after another successful day. Her aching back told her she’d be glad to get home and sleep in her own bed after a long time away.
Her laughter filled the truck as she exited and headed up the hill to her duplex. She was thirty-one, not eighty-one, but someone forgot to tell her paralyzed body that. Her accident had been fourteen years ago, and sitting in a wheelchair all day for that many years tended to be rough on the old vertebrae. Skylar noticed the billboard for her credit union, reminding her she needed to check her account as soon as she got home.
Once parked in the driveway, she hoisted her chair tothe ground and did the same with her suitcase, using the chair hoist to catch the handle. Sometimes she wished she had a butler to help her move her things around. Then she’d laugh and remind herself to pack light, because a butler was not in the budget.
Happy to be home, she grabbed her bag and headed to the ramp leading to her duplex. Usually she parked in the garage, where she had a ramp to the house as well, but at the moment the garage was full of art supplies. She would have to bug a friend to help her load and unload them at his studio across town.
A mail truck drove by, reminding her to get online and start her mail delivery again, too. There were so many things to do, but her first order of business was the bank.
She unlocked the door and pushed it inward, surprised when she met with resistance. Nothing should be blocking the door. She’d held her packages and mail, and no one was even checking on the place. Her next-door neighbor, Mrs. Valentine, had a key, but she was unlikely to go in unless there had been a problem in her unit. She certainly would have called Skylar if that were the case, since she was Mrs. Valentine’s landlord.
Determined, she pushed harder until the door opened far enough for her to roll in. Once she crossed the threshold, what she saw drew a gasp from her lips. The entire living room had been upended, her belongings broken and ripped apart, and her glass art statues shattered on the floor. She realized a table had been moved in front of the front door to block it, making it difficult to get in far enough to close it behind her.
“I have to call the police,” she whispered, reaching for the phone as a text came in.
Still in shock, she opened the text, glancing at it for barely a moment before her eye was drawn back to the living room, where her beautiful art pieces lay in shattered dreams across the hardwood floor. She loved this duplex because of its hardwood floors and easy accessibility in her chair, but the destruction before her turned that love into hate.
The strangeness of the text filtered through her shock, and she glanced at it again. It had come from an unknown caller and was nothing more than a link she didn’t recognize. Her finger on the delete button, she hesitated. In light of the carnage around her, she clicked the link. The worst thing that would happen was that her phone would get a virus, but in light of the destruction of her home and its timely arrival, she was afraid to delete it before she checked the link. Her next call would be to the police.
When the webpage loaded, a video started. An Anonymous mask filled the screen, with zeroes and ones scrolling in the background. What sent shivers down her spine was the computerized voice when it spoke. “Hello, Skylar. I’m Binate. It’s so nice to meet you. We do hope you enjoy the redecorating we did in your absence. You’ve been on quite the tear lately with your vandalism, so treating your home with the same love and affection only seemed right. Naughty, naughty what you’ve done to those poor, unsuspecting art galleries. I bet you’re sitting there in your bright white chair, starkly terrified by the trauma around you, not to mention this message I’ve sent. Good. I hope you suffer the same way you’ve made others suffer. I bet your finger is on speed dial for 911, but I wouldn’t do that if I were you. It will be hard to prove that you own that house or that Skylar Sullivan exists anymore. I want you to feelthe kind of pain that you’ve caused others. I’m coming for you, and the chase starts now, Skylar. Run as fast as you can— Oh, wait, you can’t run! That will make this that much more fun.” The voice broke out into evil laughter until it cut off sharply, the screen going black.
Skylar let out a breath, the phone heavy in her hand. She had to call the police but couldn’t bring herself to punch in the numbers. Not until she verified that what the text said was true. With a flick of her wrist, she locked the front door, rested the phone on her leg and pushed her chair forward, careful of the glass on the floor as she wheeled to the kitchen to check the back door. When she tugged on the knob, it was locked, which meant whoever had trashed the place had locked up after themselves. A shudder went through her at the thought of someone she didn’t know in her home, touching her things and destroying her heirlooms.
Anger filled her. What did he mean by vandalism and pain and trauma to art galleries? Glancing around her kitchen, where every plate, bowl and glass she owned was smashed in a pile on the floor, she imagined the hatred someone must have to do so much damage. From what she saw, the only person suffering pain and trauma was herself.
Remembering what Binate said about proving who she was, she left the kitchen and wheeled down the hallway toward her bedroom. A glance to her left told her that the guest bathroom had received the same treatment as the living room. She brought the chair to a halt at the entrance to her bedroom and sucked in a deep breath at the sight before her. The room looked like a tornado had gone through it. Nothing was where it belonged, and the mattress was slashed open, as were the pillows, feathers strewn everywhere.
Fear rocketed through her, but she pushed the chair inside and went to her safe, her mouth falling open when she saw the door hanging half off the hinges. She felt around inside but found nothing. All her paperwork was gone—her Social Security card and everything she’d need to prove her identity. At least she still had her driver’s license. She fumbled with the phone and opened her banking app. What she saw dropped her heart to her stomach.
“No, no. This can’t be,” Skylar whispered, refreshing the page only to get the same result.
Skylar lifted her head and blinked back the tears threatening to fall. She pushed in 911, but a little voice inside told her to stop, think and analyze the situation. It didn’t take long for the complete picture to form, and once she understood the gravity of the situation, she opened the phone app and called the only man who could help her.
