Chapter 1

It was a quiet Tuesday evening in the suburbs, the kind where the streetlights flickered on just as the sun dipped below the horizon. Mrs. Phyllis Grieco was in her cozy kitchen, stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce, when a sharp knock echoed through the front door. Her heart skipped a beat-unexpected visitors always made her uneasy, especially after dark. Wiping her hands on her apron, she hurried to the peephole and peered out. Two uniformed police officers stood on her porch, their badges glinting under the porch light.

She opened the door a crack, her voice tentative. "Can I help you?"

The taller one, an older man with salt-and-pepper hair and a stern but kind face, tipped his hat. "Evening, ma'am. I'm Officer Malloy, and this is my partner, Officer Reed. May we come in? It's important."

Mrs. Grieco's mind raced. Police at the door never meant good news. Her husband, Frank, was still at work-had something happened to him? An accident? Or worse? Her hands trembled as she unlatched the chain and stepped aside, letting them into the living room. The house smelled of garlic and tomatoes, a stark contrast to the cold authority they brought with them.

"Please, have a seat," she said, though her voice cracked. But they didn't sit. Instead, Officer Reed, a young woman with sharp eyes and a reassuring smile, gestured toward the couch.

"Actually, ma'am, why don't you sit down?" Reed suggested gently.

Mrs. Grieco's panic surged. This was it-the bad news ritual. They always asked you to sit before dropping the bomb. Her knees buckled as she lowered herself onto the floral-patterned sofa, clutching the armrest. "Is it Frank? My husband? Is he hurt? Oh God, is he dead?"

Officer Malloy cleared his throat, his expression grave. He knelt slightly to meet her eye level, his voice steady but laced with sympathy. "No, ma'am. It's not about your husband... at least, not in the way you think. I've got something to tell you, and it's going to sound crazy, but you need to hear it. You are not Mrs. Phyllis Grieco. You are Detective Anthony Fisher. Phyllis stole your body and left you in hers."

The words hung in the air like a bad dream. Mrs. Grieco stared at him, her mouth agape. A laugh bubbled up, hysterical and disbelieving. "What? That's absurd. I'm Phyllis Grieco. I've been married to Frank for fifteen years. We have a life here-bills, a mortgage, Sunday dinners with the in-laws. You must have the wrong house."

Malloy shook his head slowly. "I'm afraid so. We've confirmed it through... well, methods you might not understand yet. Phyllis pulled off some kind of switch-tech, maybe, or something experimental. She's in your body now, Detective. And we've been sent to bring you in."

Mrs. Grieco's world tilted. She glanced down at her hands-soft, manicured, the wedding ring glinting on her finger. But a flicker of doubt crept in, unbidden memories that didn't quite fit: flashes of stakeouts, the weight of a badge, a man's reflection in a mirror that felt... wrong? No. She shoved it away. "Oh no! It can't be! I'm not a MAN!"

Reed stepped forward, her voice soft and coaxing. "We know this is a shock. But we can help you sort it out. Come with us to the station-we'll explain everything."

"I can't go," Mrs. Grieco protested, her voice rising. "My husband will be home soon. He'll worry if I'm not here."

Malloy's tone hardened just a touch. "He's not really your husband. That isn't your body. It isn't your life."

The room spun. "I'm not a man. I can't be a man! I want you to leave my house. Now!"

Reed placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Please, ma'am-Phyllis, or Anthony, whoever you are right now. Just come with us. We'll make a call from the car if you need to. But staying here won't change the truth."

Mrs. Grieco hesitated, tears streaming down her face. "I... I have to call my husband and ask him what to do." She fumbled for her phone on the coffee table, dialing Frank's office number with shaking fingers. It rang and rang, then went to voicemail. "Frank? It's me. There are police here, saying crazy things. Call me back right away."

No answer. The silence stretched, amplifying her isolation. Finally, defeated, she nodded. "Fine. I'll come. But this is a mistake."

The ride to the station was a blur of streetlights and sirens in the distance. Mrs. Grieco-Anthony?-sat in the back, staring out the window, her mind a whirlwind of denial and creeping acceptance. At the precinct, Malloy and Reed led her to an interrogation room, where detectives were already buzzing with activity.

"We've got a lead on Frank Grieco," one of them announced as they entered. "Tracked his phone. He's at a motel on the edge of town."

Mrs. Grieco's heart pounded. "Take me there. I need to see him."

They piled into an unmarked car, speeding through the night. The motel was seedy, neon signs flickering "Vacancy" like a bad omen. Room 17. Malloy knocked firmly, and after a tense moment, the door creaked open.

There stood Frank Grieco, disheveled, his tie loosened. But behind him, lounging on the bed with a smug grin, was a man in a rumpled suit-Detective Anthony Fisher's body. Phyllis's eyes gleamed from within it, cold and calculating.