The Staged Episode

The memorial page for *Merritt Coe (1993-2025)* was tasteful.

Understated.

A photo of me from our wedding day, looking ethereal in lace, laughing at something off-camera. The caption read: *In loving memory of a light extinguished too soon. Merritt, you are finally at peace.*

There were already 412 comments.

*So tragic. She was so young.*
*Sending love to Graham. I can't imagine what he's going through.*
*Rest easy, beautiful soul.*

I scrolled through the wall of condolences. People I hadn't spoken to in years were pouring their grief into the comment section like it was a competition. My college roommate. A cousin I hated. My old boss at the coffee shop.

They were all mourning a woman who was sitting in front of a library computer, breathing, sweating, and very much alive.

It was surreal. It was digital erasure.

Graham had posted it an hour ago.

The timestamp: *1 hour ago.*

Location: *Sylvan Hills.*

He had posted it while I was locked in the basement studio. While he was playing the fake suicide tape.

He wasn't just planning to commit me.

He was planning to announce my death.

But... wait.

If I was dead, there was an autopsy. A coroner. A police report.

Unless...

Unless the "death" was metaphorical. A social death.

I read the post again.

*Merritt, you are finally at peace.*

It didn't explicitly say I was dead. It implied it. It used the language of loss without the legal liability of a death certificate.

If anyone asked, he could say, "Oh, I meant she's at peace... in the facility. Away from the noise."

But to the world—to the casual scroller—I was gone.

And if I showed up now? If I commented?

*Graham:* "Ignore that account. It's hacked. Or it's Merritt... confused. Lashing out."

He had immunized the narrative against me.

I created a burner account. *Ghost_In_The_Machine_99.*

I typed a comment.

*I'm not dead. I'm right here. He's lying.*

I hit post.

*Error: Comments on this post have been limited.*

He had restricted comments to "friends only."

I tried to DM my college roommate.

*Message Failed. User does not accept messages from unknown accounts.*

I was screaming into a void.

I logged out. I cleared the cache.

I checked my bank account again. Still frozen.

I checked my email. Still locked.

I was a digital ghost.

"Five minutes left," the computer warned.

I had five minutes to save my life.

I searched *Elena Coe Obituary.*

Nothing.

I searched *Elena Coe Artist.*

Her old portfolio site came up. *Last updated: 2019.*

I clicked "Contact."

The email address was *[email protected]*.

I sent an email from a temporary address.

*Subject: The White Dress.*
*Body: I know where you are. I know about the sugar pills. I know about the crawl space. He's doing it to me too. Help me.*

I hit send.

It probably went to a dead inbox. Or worse, to Graham.

But it was a bottle in the ocean.

"Time's up," the computer said. The screen went black.

I stood up. I felt dizzy.

I walked out of the library.

The sun was setting. The sky was a bruised purple.

I needed to get back to the house. I needed to get the recording.

But I couldn't go back the way I came. Graham knew I had escaped the studio. He would be watching the perimeter.

I needed a distraction.

I walked to the bus stop.

I didn't have money for the bus.

But I had something else.

I had a rock.

A large, jagged rock from the landscaping.

I walked up to the bus shelter. It was glass.

I looked around. No one was watching.

I smashed the rock into the glass panel.

*CRASH.*

It shattered into a million diamonds.

I pulled out the burner phone. I dialed 911.

"Emergency," the operator said.

"There's a crazy woman," I whispered, pitching my voice high. "At the bus stop on Sylvan Ridge Road. She's smashing things. She has a knife."

"Ma'am, are you safe?"

"She's screaming about her husband," I said. "She says he's burying her alive."

"Units are on the way. Stay on the line."

I hung up.

I dropped the phone in the trash can.

I ran.

I ran back toward the woods.

I heard sirens wailing in the distance. Coming closer.

They would come to the bus stop. They would find the broken glass. They would search the area.

It would draw the security guards. It would draw the police.

It would draw Graham.

He would hear the scanner. Or the guard would call him. *Mrs. Coe is at the bus stop. She's violent.*

He would come running.

And while he was looking for me at the main gate...

I would be slipping in through the back.

I reached the fence line. It was getting dark.

I climbed over. I dropped into the ferns.

I crept through the garden.

The house was dark.

Except for one light.

In the kitchen.

I crouched behind the rhododendrons. I watched.

Graham wasn't in the kitchen.

The Replacement was.

She was standing at the island. She was wearing my apron. She was chopping vegetables.

*Chop. Chop. Chop.*

She looked so domestic. So normal.

She looked like she belonged there.

I felt a surge of hatred so pure it almost choked me.

She was stealing my life.

I crept closer. To the sliding glass door.

It was locked.

But I knew the trick. If you lifted the panel just right, the latch disengaged.

I lifted. I slid.

It opened.

I slipped inside.

The Replacement didn't hear me. She was humming.

I walked up behind her.

I saw what she was chopping.

It wasn't vegetables for dinner.

It was cabbage.

Heads of Savoy cabbage.

She wasn't cooking.

She was practicing.

She was practicing *my* job.

She raised the knife. She brought it down.

*CRACK.*

"Too loud," she whispered to herself. "Needs more... squelch."

She grabbed another cabbage.

"Who are you?" I said.

She spun around. The knife flashed in her hand.

She saw me.

She didn't scream.

She smiled.

"You're back," she said. "Graham said you'd come back."

"Where is he?"

"He went to the gate," she said casually. "Something about a disturbance at the bus stop. He thought it might be you."

She put the knife down.

"He was worried," she said. "He thought you might hurt someone."

"I'm not the one with the knife," I said.

She looked at the knife. She laughed.

"It's a prop, Merritt. Everything is a prop."

She leaned against the counter. She looked me up and down.

"You look terrible," she said. "The woods don't agree with you."

"Get out of my house."

"It's not your house anymore," she said. "The deed transferred at 5:00 PM. Power of attorney. Graham signed for you."

My knees buckled. I grabbed the back of a chair.

"That's illegal," I whispered.

"It's efficient," she said. "Graham is very efficient."

She picked up a grape from a bowl on the counter. She popped it into her mouth.

"You know," she said, chewing. "I actually like the foley work. It's satisfying. Smashing things. Breaking things. It's... cathartic."

She looked at the cabbage.

"I can see why you liked it."

"I loved it," I said. "It was my art."

"Was," she corrected. "Past tense. Like you."

She walked toward me.

"You should go back to the basement, Merritt. Before he gets back. If he finds you up here... he'll be disappointed."

"I'm not going to the basement."

"Then where are you going?"

"I'm going to finish what I started."

I lunged.

I didn't go for her. I went for the knife.

I grabbed it off the counter.

She gasped. She stepped back.

"Whoa," she said. "Okay. Easy."

"Where is the recording?" I demanded. "The tape from the studio."

"Graham has it," she said. "He put it in the safe."

"The safe in the office?"

"Yes."

"Open it."

"I don't have the combination."

"Liar," I said. "You're me. You have all my codes. You have all my passwords."

She smiled. A slow, sly smile.

"True," she said. "But Graham changed the safe combination this morning. Even I don't know it."

I stared at her.

She was lying. I could tell. It was in the twitch of her eye.

"Open it," I said, raising the knife. "Or I'll give you a scar that no amount of makeup will cover. And then you won't look like me anymore. And Graham won't need you."

Her smile faltered.

She knew I was right. Her value was her face.

"Okay," she said. "Okay. Put the knife down."

"Move."

I marched her to the office.

She walked in. She went to the wall safe behind the painting of the ship.

She spun the dial.

*Left. Right. Left.*

*Click.*

The door swung open.

It was empty.

Except for one thing.

My phone.

The real one.

And it was ringing.

I looked at the screen.

*Caller ID: Elena.*

My heart stopped.

I looked at the Replacement. She looked shocked.

"Who is Elena?" she whispered.

I grabbed the phone. I answered.

"Hello?"

"Merritt?"

The voice was weak. Raspy. But alive.

"Elena?"

"Listen to me," she said. "I got your email. The nurse... she let me check the account. She thinks I'm dead."

"Where are you?"

"I'm in Zurich. But I'm coming home. I... I escaped."

"Escaped?"

"Last night," she said. "I climbed out the window. I'm at the airport. I'm coming to Sylvan Hills."

"When?"

"Saturday," she said. "I land Saturday morning."

"The party," I breathed.

"Yes," Elena said. "The party. I'm coming to the party."

"Merritt!"

Graham’s voice. From the front door.

He was back.

I hung up. I shoved the phone in my pocket.

I looked at the Replacement.

She was staring at me. Her eyes were wide.

"He lied to me," she whispered. "He said she was dead."

"He lies to everyone," I said.

Graham’s footsteps pounded down the hall.

"Merritt! I know you're in here!"

I looked at the window.

"Help me," I said to the Replacement.

She looked at the door. She looked at me.

She made a choice.

"Go," she said.

She grabbed a vase from the desk. She smashed it on the floor.

"Help!" she screamed. "She's got a knife! She's crazy!"

She winked at me.

I scrambled out the window.

I dropped into the bushes.

I heard Graham burst into the room.

"Where is she?"

"She went that way!" the Replacement yelled, pointing toward the front of the house.

I ran toward the back.

Toward the woods.

Toward Saturday.

I had an ally. I had a weapon. And now