Chapter 9 Dual Identities: Doctor and 'Ghost'
# Chapter 9: Dual Identities: Doctor and 'Ghost'
Hours stretched into an agonizing day as I waited for news in a secure FBI facility outside Boston. Damon, exhausted by the day's chaos, slept peacefully in a makeshift crib, unaware of the turmoil surrounding her tiny existence. I envied her that blissful ignorance as I paced the small room, jumping at every sound, hoping each footstep in the hallway might be Katherine with news of Declan.
When the door finally opened around midnight, Katherine's grim expression told me everything before she spoke a word.
"Lawrence Donovan escaped," she said without preamble. "Four agents down, two critically. We've lost him for now, but every law enforcement agency in the country is looking."
"And Declan?" My voice sounded strange to my own ears—tight and strained.
Katherine's expression softened slightly. "Alive. Multiple gunshot wounds—shoulder, side, and leg. He's in surgery now at Mass General. Prognosis is good, but he lost a lot of blood."
Relief made my knees weak, and I sank into a chair. "He's alive," I whispered, as if saying it aloud might make it more certain.
"He's stubborn," Katherine said, the ghost of a smile touching her lips. "Kept fighting even after taking two bullets. Refused medical attention until he knew you and Damon were safely away."
That sounded like Declan—the old Declan, my Declan. The surgeon who would work until exhaustion claimed him, who would fight for his patients beyond all reasonable odds. For all his deception over the years, that essential core of him remained unchanged.
"When can I see him?" I asked.
"Not yet. The hospital is being watched. Lawrence Donovan may have escaped, but he left instructions for his remaining associates. They're hunting both of you now."
"So we're back in hiding," I concluded bitterly.
"Just temporarily," Katherine assured me. "We've dealt a significant blow to the Donovan organization today. Most of his lieutenants are in custody. His financial assets are frozen. He's dangerous, but isolated."
I looked over at sleeping Damon. "What kind of life is this for her? Running, hiding, never knowing safety?"
"It won't be forever," Katherine promised. "Lawrence will make a mistake. Men like him always do when they're desperate."
She left shortly after, promising to return with updates on Declan's condition. Alone again with Damon, I found myself too wired to sleep despite my exhaustion. My mind kept replaying the image of Declan on that rooftop, blood seeping through his clothing, drawing fire away from us even as bullets found their mark in his body.
After ensuring Damon was settled, I began exploring the small apartment where we'd been placed. It was sparsely furnished but comfortable—clearly a dedicated safe house rather than a hastily arranged hideout. In a drawer beside the bed, I found a satellite phone with a note explaining it was for emergencies only, secure but to be used sparingly.
I hesitated only briefly before dialing. I needed answers, and waiting for Katherine's filtered updates wasn't enough.
The phone rang three times before a familiar voice answered. "Nancy Chen."
"Nancy, it's Evelyn," I said quietly, relief flooding me at the sound of my friend's voice.
"Evelyn!" Her shocked whisper carried even through the secure line. "Oh my God, are you okay? The baby?"
"We're both fine," I assured her. "We're somewhere safe." I hesitated. "Nancy, I need information. About Declan. He was shot today."
There was a brief pause. "I know. He was brought to Mass General. I'm actually here now—Katherine arranged for me to be part of his care team, since I'm one of the few people who know both his identities."
"How is he? Really?"
"Stable," she replied. "The shoulder wound was clean—through and through. The bullet to his side missed vital organs but caused significant blood loss. The leg wound is more complicated—shattered his femur. He'll need more surgery, probably physical therapy."
I closed my eyes, picturing Declan lying in a hospital bed, broken and bleeding because of choices made five years ago. "Is he conscious?"
"In and out. They have him pretty heavily sedated for the pain." She paused. "He asks for you every time he wakes up. And for Damon."
Something inside me cracked at that—the image of Declan, wounded and drugged, still focusing his scattered thoughts on us. "Tell him we're safe. Tell him..." I struggled to find the right words. "Tell him I'm waiting for him to get better."
"I will," she promised. "Evelyn, there's something else you should know. When they were prepping him for surgery, I found something in his pocket. He insisted I take it for safekeeping."
"The ring," I guessed.
"No, something else. A phone—not his regular one. It's locked, but he said if anything happened to him, I should make sure you got it. That you'd find the password 'where it all began.'"
My curiosity piqued. "Can you describe it?"
"Older model smartphone. Black case. Looks well-used." She hesitated. "Evelyn, I think it's the phone he's been using to... well, to watch over you these past five years."
The phone with all my pictures, I realized. The one he'd mentioned finding in his office, filled with surveillance photos documenting my life during his absence.
"Keep it safe," I told her. "I'll get it from you when this is over." I hesitated, then added, "How are things at the hospital? After everything?"
Nancy sighed. "Chaotic. The FBI has been interviewing staff, especially those who knew about Declan's dual identity. The media is having a field day with the story of the 'resurrected surgeon' and his 'kidnapped wife.'"
"Kidnapped?" I repeated incredulously.
"That's the official story right now—that you were taken against your will after Declan revealed himself. It's providing cover while they hunt for Lawrence."
I shook my head in disbelief. "And my mother? My friends? What do they think happened?"
"Your mother has been told you're safe in protective custody. Katherine spoke with her personally yesterday." Nancy paused. "She also knows Declan is alive. Apparently, she threw a vase at Katherine when she found out."
That sounded like my mother—practical in crisis, explosive in betrayal. "I need to speak with her."
"Katherine says it's not safe yet. Any communication could be traced."
I was about to argue when Damon began to fuss. "I have to go," I told Nancy. "Call this number if anything changes with Declan's condition. Anything at all."
"I will," she promised. "Stay safe, Evelyn."
After tending to Damon, I found myself too restless to sleep. The conversation with Nancy had left me with more questions than answers, and one particular detail kept nagging at me: the phone. What was on it that Declan wanted me to have? And why the cryptic clue about the password?
'Where it all began.' Our first meeting? Medical school, where we'd been fierce competitors before becoming friends and eventually lovers? Our wedding day? The birth of our daughter?
No—those were beginnings, but not where "it" began. The "it" must be his deception, his second life. Where had that begun?
The morgue. Where he'd staged his death, where he'd made the choice that altered both our lives irrevocably.
But what password could that translate to? The date of his "death"? The case number from the police report? I had no way of knowing without the phone itself.
As dawn broke, Katherine returned with breakfast and fresh clothes for both me and Damon.
"Any news?" I asked immediately.
"Declan's condition has improved overnight," she reported. "Doctors expect a full recovery, though the leg will take time."
"And Lawrence?"
"Still in the wind, but we've frozen more of his accounts and arrested three more associates who were trying to flee the country." She set down a paper bag. "I brought you something else. Declan asked that it be delivered to you."
Inside was a simple envelope. I opened it with trembling fingers to find a handwritten note:
*Evelyn,*
*If you're reading this, I've survived (again). Don't worry—I'm not planning any more resurrections. Two lives are enough for anyone.*
*Katherine tells me you're safe but that I can't see you yet. I understand. Your safety—yours and Damon's—comes first. Always.*
*I asked Nancy to secure my other phone for you. The password is 03142017—the date I watched you place flowers on my empty grave for the first time. The day I nearly revealed myself because I couldn't bear your pain any longer.*
*What you'll find on that phone isn't just surveillance. It's the record of a man who couldn't stay away, who lived in the shadows of your life because even that half-existence was better than no existence at all.*
*I don't expect forgiveness. I don't even ask for it. But I do ask that you look at those photos and see them not as the actions of a stalker, but as the desperate attempts of a man trying to remain connected to the only thing that made his life worth living.*
*Yours (always),*
*Declan*
I folded the note carefully, emotions too tangled to unravel. Part of me was touched by his vulnerability, by this glimpse into his isolation over the past five years. Another part remained disturbed by the implications—that he'd been watching, documenting, preserving moments of my life without my knowledge or consent.
"I need that phone," I told Katherine. "The one Nancy has."
She studied me carefully. "I can arrange it. But you should know—the FBI wants to examine it as potential evidence."
"After I see it," I insisted. "It's personal, Katherine. Between me and Declan."
She nodded slowly. "I'll have it brought here this afternoon."
True to her word, by mid-afternoon an agent delivered a small package containing the phone. Once alone, I stared at it for several minutes before working up the courage to enter the password—03142017.
The phone unlocked to reveal a gallery app prominently displayed on the home screen. With a deep breath, I opened it.
The photos started from five years ago, just weeks after Declan's "death." They were taken from a distance at first—me leaving our apartment building, walking to the hospital, sitting alone in a cafe. The early images showed me in black, visibly thinner, my face drawn with grief.
As I scrolled through, the timeline progressed. There were dozens—hundreds—of photos documenting moments both significant and mundane:
Me receiving an award at a medical conference, smiling professionally while my eyes remained sad.
Me asleep on a break room couch during a long shift, a medical journal fallen open across my chest.
Me having coffee with my mother, both of us looking somber on what I recognized as the anniversary of Declan's "death."
But as the timeline continued, something changed. The photos began to include notes—Declan's observations, his reactions:
*"Your hair is shorter. It suits you. You seem lighter somehow, like you're beginning to move forward. I should be glad. Why does it hurt so much?"*
*"You laughed today—really laughed—with that new doctor from Cardiology. First time I've seen that in 14 months. I sat in my car afterward and cried."*
*"You wore my favorite dress to dinner with him tonight. The blue one with the small flowers. Do you remember it's my favorite? Do you wear it to feel close to me, or have you finally let me go?"*
As the years progressed, the photos showed subtle changes in me—a gradual return of light to my eyes, a straightening of my shoulders, the slow rebuilding of a life shattered by grief. And alongside, Declan's notes grew more reflective, less possessive:
*"You donated my books to the hospital library today. It's time. I'm glad they'll help others instead of collecting dust as shrines."*
*"You turned down his proposal. I should feel relieved, but instead I feel guilty. You deserve happiness, Evelyn. Even if it's not with me. Especially if it's not with me."*
The most recent photos showed my pregnancy—the gradual swell of my belly, my hand resting protectively over our growing child. These images were closer, less like surveillance and more like portraits captured in stolen moments:
*"You're having a baby. Our baby. I didn't know until today. I've never felt such conflicting emotions—joy and despair in equal measure. Will I ever know this child? Will they ever know me? Should they?"*
The final image was taken just days before Damon's birth—me standing by a hospital window, silhouetted against the sunset, one hand on my belly. The note attached was simplest of all:
*"Whatever happens next, this moment—you, our child, this quiet anticipation—I will carry it with me always. This is my real resurrection. Not from death to life, but from half-life to purpose."*
I set the phone down, tears streaming freely now. What I'd expected to find—evidence of obsession, of unhealthy fixation—was certainly there. But alongside it was something else: the chronicle of a man wrestling with impossible choices, trying to honor his love while accepting its limitations.
This wasn't just surveillance. It was a dialogue Declan had been having with himself—and with me—for five years, never expecting I would actually hear it.
I was still processing these revelations when Katherine returned with evening news updates. Lawrence remained at large, but his organization was crumbling. Declan had been moved from intensive care to a private room under guard.
"He's asking to see you," she said carefully. "The doctors say he's well enough for a brief visit, if you want to go."
I looked down at Damon, peacefully sleeping, then at the phone containing five years of Declan's silent vigil.
"Yes," I said finally. "I think it's time we talked—face to face, with all the truths between us."
