Chapter 14: The Rattle

Mark's hand tightened on the knob, his knuckles whitening. For a second, I thought he would turn around. I thought he would scream, or lie, or maybe even tell the truth.

But he didn't. He just stood there, his back to me, radiating a tension so palpable it felt like a third person in the room.

"Get some sleep, Elara," he said, his voice flat.

He pulled the door shut. The lock clicked, louder this time. Final.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding, my hands shaking as I reached into my bra and pulled out the crumpled receipt. *Sarah.*

I smoothed the paper on the duvet, staring at the thermal ink. If Sarah was dead, Chloe was an imposter. If Chloe was an imposter, who was she? And why was Mark—my husband, the father of my child—protecting her?

I needed more.

I scanned the room. I had already checked the trash. The nightstand was empty. The dresser drawers held only my clothes, folded with military precision by Chloe.

But there was one thing she hadn't touched.

Chloe’s purse.

She had left it on the chair earlier, when she was guarding me. I remembered seeing the strap hanging off the armrest. I looked at the chair now.

It was still there.

A black leather tote, slouching against the velvet upholstery. She must have forgotten it in her rush to start dinner.

I swung my legs out of bed. The pain in my incision flared, hot and sharp, but I ignored it. I shuffled across the room, my bare feet silent on the carpet.

I reached the chair and sank to my knees, grabbing the bag. It was heavy.

I opened it.

A wallet. A pack of gum. Keys. A tube of lipstick—the same aggressive coral from the photo.

I pulled out the wallet. It was expensive, designer leather, but scuffed at the corners. I flipped it open.

Driver's license.

The face was Chloe's. The hair was blonde, the smile tight.

But the name wasn't Chloe Vance.

It wasn't even Sarah.

*Elena Rostova.*

Elena.

The name Mark had given our "dead baby." The name he had used to explain away the rattle.

I stared at the license. It was issued in Nevada, three years ago.

I dug deeper into the bag. Receipts. A half-eaten protein bar. And at the very bottom, wrapped in a tissue, something hard and metallic.

I unwrapped it.

It was a silver baby rattle.

The same one I had found before? No. That one was still in the drawer where I had hidden it. This was a second rattle. Identical.

I turned it over. The engraving was the same. *Elena & Mark 2016.*

Why did she have two? Why did she carry it with her?

And then I saw the date.

2016.

Ten years ago.

Ten years ago, Mark didn't know me. Ten years ago, he was supposed to be mourning his mother, Sarah.

I looked at the license again. Elena Rostova.

I put the pieces together, and the picture they formed was terrifying.

Mark hadn't named our imaginary dead baby after a lost dream. He had named her after *her.*

Chloe wasn't his sister. She was Elena.

And they had known each other for a decade.

A floorboard creaked in the hallway.

I shoved the rattle and the wallet back into the bag. I threw the strap over the armrest, trying to make it look exactly as it had been.

I scrambled back to the bed, diving under the covers just as the lock turned.

The door opened.

Chloe walked in. She wasn't carrying dinner. She was carrying a glass of water and two yellow pills.

"Mark said you were asking questions," she said.

She walked to the chair and picked up her purse. She slung it over her shoulder, her eyes never leaving my face.

"I forgot this," she said. "Silly me."

She smiled. It was the same smile from the license.

"Did you find what you were looking for, Elara?"