The Voice on the Tape

The lullaby faded, replaced by the mechanical hum of the train tracks beneath Elena's feet. She yanked the headphones off, the sound of her own heartbeat loud in the sudden silence.

*I recorded it the night you were born.*

The text message glowed on her screen, a digital ghost. The sender wasn't Arthur. Arthur was dead. The sender wasn't Meredith. Meredith was in the car with Claire—no, with the *imposter*.

Elena stared at the phone. The unknown number. The taunting messages.

It wasn't Julian. He was too blunt, too desperate.

It wasn't Sarah. She was too broken.

It was the Third Sister.

The train screeched into the next station. *Halloway Road.*

Elena stood up, her legs unsteady. This was it. The location of the storage unit. The place where Arthur hid the rest of his sins.

She stepped onto the platform. It was empty, save for a few commuters huddled against the cold. She didn't see the man in the dark suit. He must have stayed on the train, or…

Or he was already ahead of her.

She walked up the stairs, into the gray morning light. The storage facility was a block away, a sprawling complex of orange brick and razor wire. *U-Store-It.*

She checked the receipt again. *Unit 404.*

She approached the gate. A keypad blinked red. She punched in the code from the receipt—the date of her birth. *0422.*

Nothing.

She tried the date of the arrest. *1014.*

Green light.

The gate slid open.

She walked down the rows of metal doors, counting the numbers. 300… 350… 400.

She reached 404.

It was locked with a heavy padlock. But she didn't have a key for this one.

She looked around. A fire extinguisher hung on the wall nearby.

She grabbed it.

She slammed the heavy canister against the lock. Once. Twice. The metal groaned.

On the third hit, the hasp snapped.

She pulled the door up. It rattled on its tracks, revealing a dark, dusty space.

It was filled with boxes. Furniture. A crib.

Elena stepped inside. She recognized the crib. It was the one from the nursery at the estate. The one she had slept in.

And next to it, draped in plastic, was a wedding dress.

Meredith’s dress.

Elena walked over to it. She touched the lace, yellowed with age. It smelled of lavender and mothballs.

She lifted the skirt.

There, hidden in the folds of the tulle, was a book.

Not a diary.

A ledger.

Blue leather cover. Gold embossing.

*The Blue Ledger.*

Elena picked it up. Her hands were shaking. This was it. The Holy Grail. The proof of everything.

She opened it.

The pages were filled with columns of numbers. Dates. Names.

*Judge Halloway. $50,000.*

*Officer Miller. $10,000.*

*Dr. Aris. $25,000.*

And then, a name she didn't expect.

*Claire Vance. $100,000.*

Elena stared at the entry. Claire? Her aunt? The woman who had helped her escape?

No. Not Claire.

The *imposter.*

She flipped the page.

*Payment for services rendered: Extraction and transport of Subject M.*

Subject M. Meredith.

The woman driving the car wasn't saving Meredith. She was delivering her.

Elena flipped to the next page.

*Payment for services rendered: Surveillance of Subject E.*

Subject E. Elena.

The third sister had been watching her. All her life.

And then, she saw it. The last entry. Dated yesterday.

*Final Payment. Upon delivery of the Ledger.*

The imposter wasn't just a driver. She was a cleaner. A fixer.

And she was coming for the book.

Elena heard a sound behind her. The crunch of gravel.

She spun around, the ledger clutched to her chest.

Standing in the doorway of the unit was the man in the dark suit. The one from the train.

He wasn't holding a radio anymore.

He was holding a gun.

"Hand it over, Ms. Vance," he said.

Elena backed up until she hit the crib.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"I work for the Governor," the man said. "And he's very anxious to get his property back."

"The Governor is a murderer," Elena said.

"The Governor is a pragmatist," the man corrected. "Now give me the book."

Elena looked at the ledger. Then at the gun.

She couldn't give it up. Not after everything.

She threw the fire extinguisher.

It hit the man in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. He stumbled back, the gun firing wild into the ceiling.

Elena ran. She sprinted past him, out of the unit, down the row of orange doors.

She heard him shouting behind her. Footsteps pounding on the pavement.

She reached the gate. It was closing.

She slid under it just as it clanged shut.

She ran into the street. A taxi was idling at the curb.

She jumped in. "Drive!"

"Where to, lady?" the driver asked, eyeing her disheveled appearance in the mirror.

Elena looked down at the ledger in her lap. She opened it to the very back.

There was a phone number written in the margin.

And a name.

*The Journalist.*

"The Tribune building," Elena said. "And hurry."

She dialed the number.

It rang once. Twice.

"Hello?" a voice answered. A woman's voice. Sharp. Professional.

"This is Elena Vance," Elena said. "I have the ledger."

There was a pause.

"Meet me in the lobby," the journalist said. "And Elena? Don't trust anyone in a uniform."

"I know," Elena said.

She hung up.

She looked out the window. The black SUV was behind them. Following.

She looked at the ledger again. At the entry for Claire Vance.

And underneath it, in small, faint pencil, was a note.

*She isn't who she says she is. Check the birth certificate.*

Elena frowned. Whose birth certificate?

She flipped to the front of the ledger. There was a pocket inside the cover.

She reached in.

She pulled out a folded piece of paper.

A birth certificate.

*Name: Sarah Vance.*
*Date of Birth: April 22, 1980.*

April 22nd.

Elena’s birthday.

She stared at the paper.

Sarah wasn't her younger sister.

She was her twin.