Chapter 45: The Neighbor's Whisper

Chloe’s voice was a scalpel, peeling back my last layer of defense. I didn't breathe. I didn't move. The old iPhone was a hot coal beneath the blankets, its screen likely still glowing with the image of the woman Chloe had erased.

"Mark is so worried about your technical 'glitches,' Elara," she said, her silhouette expanding as she stepped fully into the closet. "He thinks you're just a confused, hormonal mother reaching for straws. But I know better. I know a hunter when I see one."

She reached down, her fingers grazing the edge of the duvet where the phone lay hidden. I braced myself to lunge, to claw at those cold, calculating eyes, when a sudden, sharp *rap-rap-rap* echoed from the front door downstairs.

Chloe froze. Her hand retreated.

"Chloe!" Mark’s voice bellowed from the foyer. "Mail’s here. There’s something for Elara."

She cut a glance at me, a silent promise of a resumed interrogation, and vanished from the room. I heard the lock click—a sound that used to break me but now only signaled a temporary ceasefire.

I waited until her footsteps reached the bottom of the stairs. Then, I scrambled to the closet door, pressing my ear against the wood.

"It’s a 'Get Well' card," Mark was saying, his voice tight with an edge of nerves I hadn't heard before. "From Mrs. Gable’s sister. Sent from the hospital."

"Give it to me," Chloe snapped.

A rustle of paper. A long, agonizing silence.

"It’s just a card, Elena," Mark muttered. "Flowers on the front. Sentimental garbage. Put it on her tray."

"I don't like it," Chloe hissed. "Mrs. Gable is supposed to be in a coma. How is she sending cards?"

"Her sister, Mark. I told you. Now get the bag ready. The lawyer is calling back in ten minutes."

The stairs groaned again. I dove back onto the bed, hiding the iPhone in the center of a rolled-up sweater in the dresser. When Chloe entered, she didn't speak. She dropped an envelope onto my lap and stood there, her shadow stretching across the bed like a stain.

"Read it," she commanded.

I opened the envelope. The card was cheap, a generic watercolor of lilies. Inside, a shaky hand had written: *Thinking of you, Elara. The truth always finds a way to the light. Warmly, Mrs. G.*

Chloe snatched the card from my fingers, squinting at the cursive. She turned it over, checking the back, then peered into the empty envelope. "Light," she whispered, her lip curling. "The old bat is delusional."

She tossed the card back at me and marched out, the door slamming with finality.

I stared at the lilies on the front. Mrs. Gable wasn't delusional. She was a woman who had run a Neighborhood Watch for twenty years. She knew how to pass a message under a warden's nose.

I turned the envelope over. My eyes landed on the stamp—a standard Forever stamp, slightly crooked. I felt a bump beneath the adhesive.

With shaking fingers, I peeled the stamp back.

Hidden underneath, written in microscopic, ink-black script that required me to hold it an inch from my eye, was a single, devastating sentence.

*Elena Rostova. Wanted for Identity Theft 2016. Professional Body Snatcher.*

The card slipped from my hand. Chloe wasn't just a woman who had stepped into a dead sister's shoes. She was a specialist. A woman who made a career of hollowing out families and wearing their names like stolen jewelry.

She wasn't just a con artist. She was a professional body snatcher.