ELIJAH'S POV
The television in my sitting room was tuned to Channel 7, and there she was. Imogen. Standing behind a podium at my own company's headquarters, looking every inch the grieving woman she was pretending to be.
I leaned back in the leather armchair and smiled. This was better than I could have hoped for.
"Good afternoon. My name is Imogen Stone, and I returned to Portland seven years after most people thought I was dead."
My mother's tea cup rattled against its saucer. She set it down with trembling hands and turned to stare at me. "Elijah, what is she doing?"
"Exactly what I need her to do," I said, never taking my eyes off the screen.
Imogen continued her performance. The lighting was perfect, casting shadows under her eyes that made her look properly tragic. Someone had done her makeup well. She looked fragile but not broken. Vulnerable but not weak. It was a masterclass in public sympathy.
