“But he couldn’t replicate the natural nerve damage,” Alexander said, touching his own cheek. “The scar near his left ear is three millimeters too low. Anyone who knows basic anatomy can see the graft line under a bright light.”

“We just need to get the images on the screen,” I said.

Alexander had already contacted Marcus, a former AV technician at the Plaza whom Alexander had helped years ago.

Marcus still had access to the master control booth overlooking the grand ballroom.

If we could get the flash drive to Marcus, he could override the evening’s promotional video.

Instead of the Whitmore Global corporate presentation, the screens would display the DNA matches and medical scans.

“And then I walk onto the stage,” Alexander said, his voice tightening.

“It’s dangerous, Alex,” I said.

“It is the only way to end this,” he said. “When the crowd sees us standing side by side, the scar will prove who is who.”

The next day, we began our journey south.

The autumn rain beat a steady rhythm against the windshield of our rented sedan.