The Accountant

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The Accountant's Lie

30 Years of Deception

For three decades, I have perfected the art of being uninteresting. I am the man who mows the lawn on Saturdays, complains about tax season, and kisses his wife on the forehead before bed. She thinks she married a gentle, number-crunching accountant, but the truth is that the man she loves doesn't legally exist. I am a ghost, a fabrication created by the U.S. Marshals thirty years ago to hide a key witness who brought down one of the most violent syndicates on the border. Every "business trip" I took was a debriefing; every time I checked the locks, it wasn't habit, it was survival. I built a fortress of boredom around us, believing that if I was quiet enough, the past would eventually forget my name.

But that fortress crumbled yesterday in the produce aisle. I was picking out avocados for our anniversary dinner when I felt eyes on me—a sensation I hadn't felt since my days running logistics for the cartel. I turned, hoping to see a neighbor, but instead, I locked eyes with a man who should have been in a supermax prison. He didn't say a word; he just smiled—a cold, dead smile—and tapped his wrist, signaling that my time was finally up. My old cartel boss found me at the grocery store, and now I’m sitting in my car watching my wife garden, knowing that tonight isn't our anniversary dinner. It’s the night I have to tell her that her entire life is a fiction, and we have to run before the ghosts of my past burn our future to the ground.

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