Chapter 13: Silent Treatment

Chloe didn't leave.

She sat in the armchair for two hours, watching me with the blank, unblinking intensity of a security camera. She had a book in her lap—some generic thriller—but she never turned the page.

At five, the silence broke.

"I need to start dinner," she said, standing up and smoothing her skirt. "Mark will be home soon."

"I'm not hungry," I said.

"You will be. It's lasagna."

She left, locking the door behind her. The heavy *thud* of the deadbolt was a punctuation mark on the afternoon.

I waited until I heard the clatter of pans in the kitchen downstairs. The sound of normalcy. It felt obscene.

I didn't have much time.

I dragged myself out of bed. The room was dim, the heavy curtains blocking out the world, but my eyes had adjusted to the gloom. I needed information. I needed to know who these people were.

I started with the trash can.

It had been emptied this morning, the liner fresh and white. But maybe they missed something. I dug through the bottom, my fingers brushing against nothing but plastic.

Then I checked the bathroom. The wastebasket under the sink.

It was full of tissues. Makeup wipes stained with Chloe's foundation. A few cotton balls.

I pulled it all out, spreading the refuse on the tile floor.

At the bottom, wadded into a tight ball, was a crumpled piece of paper. It looked like a receipt, the thermal ink fading.

I smoothed it out on my knee.

It was from a florist. *Oakwood Blooms.* Dated four years ago.

*Order #4928*
*Item: Wreath, White Lilies & Roses*
*Card Message: Rest in Peace, Sarah. We will never forget you.*
*Billed to: Mark Vance.*

I stared at the name. Sarah.

Not Elena. Sarah.

Mark had told me he was an only child. Then he told me about Chloe, the estranged sister. He had never mentioned a Sarah.

Unless Sarah was the real sister.

And Chloe was... someone else.

I looked at the date again. Four years ago.

If Sarah Vance died four years ago, then the woman downstairs—the woman wearing my husband's favorite apron, cooking lasagna in my kitchen—couldn't be his sister.

She was an imposter.

A chill skittered down my spine. It wasn't just identity theft. It was replacement. She hadn't just taken a name; she had taken a life.

And Mark knew. He had paid for the flowers.

I heard the front door open downstairs.

"Honey! I'm home!"

Mark's voice. Cheerful. Husbandly.

I shoved the receipt into my bra, right against my skin. It scratched, a secret burning against my heart.

I shoved the trash back into the bin, arranging the tissues to hide the disturbance. I flushed the toilet for cover and limped back to bed.

The door opened.

Mark walked in, loosening his tie. He smiled at me, that easy, charming smile that had made me fall in love with him in a coffee shop three years ago.

"Hey," he said. "Chloe says you had a quiet afternoon."

"Quiet," I agreed. "Very quiet."

He sat on the edge of the bed. He reached out and touched my cheek. His hand was warm.

"You look better," he said. "Less... frantic."

"I feel better," I lied. "The extra sleep helped."

He leaned in to kiss me. I let him. I let him press his lips to mine, tasting the coffee and mint on his breath. I let him think he had won.

Because I knew something he didn't know I knew.

I pulled back, forcing a smile.

"Mark," I said softly. "Who is Sarah?"

His smile didn't waver. Not even a millimeter. But his eyes... they went dead. Flat and empty, like a shark's.

"Who?" he asked.

"Sarah," I said. "I found a receipt. For funeral flowers."

He stared at me for a long moment. Then he sighed, a sound of profound disappointment.

"Elara," he said. "We talked about this. You're confused."

"I'm not confused. It said Sarah Vance."

"That was my mother," he said smoothly. "Her name was Sarah. Chloe is her middle name. She goes by Chloe."

It was a good lie. Quick. Plausible.

Except the receipt said *Rest in Peace, Sarah.* Not Mom. Not Mother. Sarah.

And the date. Four years ago.

His mother had died ten years ago. He had told me that on our first date. He had cried about it.

"Your mother died ten years ago," I whispered.

Mark's face hardened. The mask slipped, just for a second, revealing the steel beneath.

"You're misremembering," he said cold. "The drugs mess with your sense of time."

He stood up.

"I'm going to get your dinner. And your meds. You need a double dose tonight."

He walked to the door.

"Mark," I called out.

He stopped, his hand on the knob.

"If Sarah is your mother," I said, my voice trembling, "then who is the woman downstairs?"