Recording the Staff

The woman in my kitchen had been there for forty minutes. I knew because the rhythmic *tink-tink* of her spoon against a porcelain mug had become a metronome for my panic. I remained in the service vent, my body pressed against the cold aluminum, the micro-recorder Toby gave me biting into my ribs.

I checked the screen on the tablet Sarah had left me.

The woman was sipping tea. She looked like me. Not the me that had been schlepped into Northlake, but the me from before. The me who actually enjoyed a Costco run and didn't check for cameras in the smoke detectors. She was wearing my favorite Lululemon leggings and a cable-knit sweater I thought I’d lost in the donation purge.

She looked at her reflection in the window of the Smart Glass oven. She smoothed a stray hair behind her left ear.

There was no scar.

"She’s perfect, isn't she?"

I flinched, my elbow hitting the metal duct. The sound was a gunshot in the cramped space.

"Merritt?" The woman in the kitchen stopped stirring. She tilted her head, listening. "Graham? Is that you?"

It was my voice. My cadence. My specific, Midwestern-inflected "a."

I didn't answer. I couldn't. The verbal paralysis that usually aiding my erasure was now the only thing keeping me hidden.

The tablet in my hand hummed. A new message.

*Sarah: She's the insurance policy. The Directors don't like loose ends.*

I looked back at the woman. She had gone back to her tea. She picked up a phone—my phone, the one Graham had "lost"—and began scrolling.

"Oh, Lorna," she murmured, her voice dripping with the exact brand of Pacific Northwest polite I’d spent years perfecting. "I’m so sorry about your wrist. I'll bring over some of that soup you like tomorrow."

She was answering my texts. She was living my life.

She was the survivor Graham needed. The one who could stand in front of the State Troopers and say, *I’m fine, really. My poor husband just had a breakdown from the stress of caring for me.*

The real Merritt Coe was currently a fugitive in a stolen sedan, wearing gray paper scrubs and smelling like a sewer.

I reached for the latch on the vent cover. It was a simple plastic tab.

I had the matches. I had the micro-recorder. I had the truth.

But looking at the woman who had stolen my face, I felt a wave of disgust that was more potent than the fear. She wasn't just a replacement. She was an upgrade. She looked rested. She looked sane.

She looked like someone worth believing.

I pushed the grate.

It swung open on a silent hinge—Toby really did know his HVAC—and I dropped onto the kitchen floor.

The woman spun around. She didn't scream. She didn't drop the mug.

She just looked at me, her eyes taking in the blood, the dirt, and the straightjacket sleeves hanging from my shoulders.

"You're not on the call sheet," she said.

"The show is over," I rasped. I held up the micro-recorder. "I have the confession. I have the Director on tape."

The woman laughed. It was a light, melodic sound. "Merritt, honey. Do you really think a recording matters in Act 5? The audience has already moved on to the reunion special."

She set her tea down and walked toward me. She was ambling, lowkey terrifying in her confidence.

"The State Troopers aren't coming to save you," she said. "They’re coming to arrest the woman who broke into Northlake and assaulted a staff member. They’re coming to arrest the woman who thinks she’s Merritt Coe."

"I *am* Merritt Coe."

"Tell that to the FaceID on your phone," she said, holding up the device.

She aimed the camera at me.

*Red light. Double vibration. Passcode required.*

"Now me," she whispered.

She held the phone to her own face.

*Click. Home screen.*

I felt a jolt of adrenaline that made my vision tunnel. This was giving 'missing puzzle piece' vibes. The audacity was astronomical.

"You had surgery," I whispered.

"The Trust pays for the best," she replied. She reached into the fruit bowl on the island and pulled out a paring knife. "But they don't like to pay for two of the same thing."

She lunged.

I was faster. I’d spent forty-eight hours running for my life; I understood the assignment now.

I grabbed the cast-iron skillet from the stovetop—the one I’d used on Lorna—and swung.

*CLANG.*

The knife skittered across the floor. The woman stumbled, clutching her ribs.

"Gavin!" she screamed. "She’s here!"

The basement door burst open.

Graham—no, Gavin, the Director, the man in the lab coat—walked in. He wasn't wearing the coat anymore. He was wearing a tuxedo.

"You're just in time for the toast, Merritt," he said.

He held a bottle of vintage Krug. He looked at the woman in the white dress, then at me.

"Which one started the fire, Gavin?" the woman asked.

Gavin popped the cork. The sound was a small explosion in the quiet house.

"Both of you," he said. "The testers couldn't decide on a favorite, so we're going with a double-elimination."

He poured the champagne into two glasses.

"The neighbors are already outside," he said, gesturing to the Smart Glass walls.

I looked.

The glass had gone clear.

The entire Sylvan Hills Preservation Committee was standing on the lawn. They were holding candles. They were wearing black.

It was a vigil.

A Celebration of Life for a woman who was standing right in front of them, but whom they had already decided was a ghost.

Lorna was there, her wrist in a bright white cast, looking at the house with wet, greedy eyes.

"If the house burns now," Gavin whispered, leaning in so I could smell the sandalwood and the champagne, "the insurance pays double for a total loss of life. The brothers get the payout. The Director gets a reboot. And the neighbors get to be the heroes of a very tragic story."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver lighter.

*Flick.*

The flame was small, but the kitchen was already smelling like the red drones—the accelerant Sarah had cut into the floorboards earlier.

I looked at the woman in my dress. She looked at me.

For a second, the script didn't matter. The identical eyes met, and I saw the same core wound I’d carried since I was twelve.

"The matches," she whispered.

"I remember," I said.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the micro-recorder. I didn't play the confession.

I hit the button Sarah had told me about. The one marked *PERIMETER*.

The drones in the forest didn't descend.

They *ignited*.

A wall of blue flame erupted at the edge of the woods, a ring of fire that instantly cut off the neighborhood from the county road.

The neighbors on the lawn screamed. They dropped their candles. They ran for their cars, but the security gate was already locked.

"What did you do?" Gavin roared.

"I changed the genre," I said. "This isn't a thriller anymore. It's a disaster movie."

I grabbed the woman in the white dress by the arm.

"Run," I said.

We ran for the basement door. Gavin lunged for us, but the accelerant on the floor ignited as a drone crashed into the roof.

The Vivarium exploded in a shower of Smart Glass and raw silk.

We hit the bottom of the basement stairs just as the ceiling began to groan.

"The cistern!" I shouted.

We waded into the dark water. The smell of oil was gone, replaced by the roar of the fire above us.

We reached the iron hatch. I pulled.

It wouldn't budge.

"Push together!" the woman screamed.

We put our shoulders to the metal. The heat from the ceiling was a physical weight, a branding iron against our backs.

*Creeeeeak.*

The hatch opened.

We scrambled out into the night air.

The house was a tower of flame. The glass was melting, dripping onto the grass like liquid diamonds.

I saw Gavin. He was standing on the balcony, his tuxedo on fire, holding the red metal truck.

He didn't jump. He just watched us.

"Cut!" he screamed into the night.

The roof collapsed.

The silence that followed was absolute.

I sat on the grass, gasping for breath. The woman in the white dress sat next to me.

We looked exactly the same. Covered in soot. Bleeding.

A car door slammed.

Sarah and Toby ran toward us. They stopped ten feet away.

Toby was holding a flashlight. He shined it on us.

"Merritt?" he asked.

Neither of us spoke.

I looked at the woman next to me. She looked at me.

She reached into her soot-stained pocket and pulled out a photograph.

The four identical boys.

She handed it to Toby.

"Check the beneficiaries," she rasped.

Then she turned to me and whispered the one thing that made my blood run cold.

"Tell me, Merritt... if we both lived, then who is currently standing at the front gate?"

I looked toward the driveway, and through the smoke, I saw a black sedan idling.

The driver got out.

He was wearing a charcoal blazer. He was holding a shovel.

And in his other hand, he was holding the red metal truck I thought I’d just seen perish in the fire.

The handle of the sedan's back door began to turn.