The Dosage Increase

Mark’s hand was a shadow inches from my skin, the heat of his palm a silent threat. I lay paralyzed, the passports beneath the mattress feeling like shards of glass against my back. My chest refused to move, my lungs locking in a desperate attempt to prove I was the vegetable they needed me to be.

"Mark?"

Chloe’s voice cut through the dark like a whip. She stood in the doorway, her silhouette sharp and clinical. She didn't turn on the light, but the tablet in her hand cast a ghoulish blue glow over her features.

"She’s fine," Chloe said, her voice devoid of any sisterly warmth. "She’s exactly where we left her. Come back downstairs. We have work to do."

Mark didn't move. He continued to loom over me, his breathing a ragged, rhythmic growl. "She was out of bed, Elena. I found her in the hall."

"She’s a sleepwalker, Mark. Postpartum brain is a playground for parasomnia. Dr. Thorne warned us about the disorientation." Chloe stepped into the room, her heels silent on the plush carpet. She reached out and gripped Mark’s shoulder, her fingers digging in with a possessive strength. "The safe is the priority. If Nadia saw the combination—"

"Nadia was in the nursery," Mark snapped, finally pulling away from me. "I checked the logs."

"Then it was the wind. Or the house settling." Chloe’s voice softened, turning into that terrifying, medicalized purr. "But we can't take any more chances with our guest. The cheeking stops tonight."

She walked to the nightstand and set down a small plastic cup. I could smell it instantly—a thick, chemical scent like burnt rubber and over-sweetened cherries.

"Wake up, Elara," Chloe commanded.

I didn't move. I couldn't.

Mark grabbed my shoulder and rolled me onto my back. His grip was bruising. "Drink it," he hissed. "Now."

I opened my eyes, letting them swim in a simulated haze. Chloe held the cup to my lips. The liquid was viscous, a dark, bruised purple.

"Liquid sedative," Chloe whispered, her face inches from mine. "You can't hide this under your tongue. You can't spit it out without leaving a trail. Swallow."

I felt the cool rim of the plastic against my teeth. I took a sip. It was vile, a bitter, tongue-numbing poison that made my throat reflexively seize. I swallowed, then another, the syrup coating my esophagus like sludge.

My stomach revolted. A hot, acidic surge climbed my throat, but I forced it back down. I couldn't vomit. Not yet. I needed them to leave.

"Good girl," Chloe said. She took the empty cup and wiped a stray drop from my chin with her thumb. Her skin felt like parchment.

She leaned down, her breath smelling of peppermint and cold steel.

"Curiosity kills the cat, Elara," she whispered, her mask finally dropping to reveal the hollowed-out soul of Elena Rostova. "And the wife."

They backed out of the room, the click of the lock sounding like a gunshot. I waited, counting to ten, before I scrambled toward the bathroom. I fell against the toilet, shoving two fingers down my throat, desperate to expel the chemical fog before it reached my bloodstream.

I heaved until my ribs ached and my vision blurred with broken capillaries. I washed my mouth out with freezing water, my hands shaking so hard I splashed the mirror.

I looked at my reflection. The blue silk dress was stained with wine and bile. I looked like a ghost.

Then I heard it. A faint, metallic scraping sound coming from the wall behind the mirror.

*Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.*

I pressed my ear to the cold glass.

"Elara," a voice whispered. It wasn't Chloe. It wasn't Mark. It was the low, desperate rasp of Mrs. Gable from inside the crawlspace. "They're bringing the van to the back. They aren't waiting for Friday."