Sarah's Suggestion

"She wasn't different."

Sarah's whisper hung between them like smoke in the chilly dusk air. Her face was pale, the foundation cracking around her eyes where tears had started to leak through.

Claire held her breath. "What do you mean, Sarah? You said she was better."

"She was," Sarah insisted, her voice gaining a frantic, brittle edge. She looked over her shoulder at the looming stone house, then back at Claire. "The first one... Mom... she was always in bed. The shades were always drawn. She smelled like medicine and sadness. We weren't allowed to make noise."

She wrapped her arms around herself, the cashmere cardigan pulling tight across her shoulders.

"But then she went away," Sarah continued, her eyes unfocused. "Dad said she went to a spa in Arizona. For her nerves. And when she came back..."

"It was November 1992," Claire said.

Sarah nodded. "She was tan. She was happy. She brought us presents. She let me eat ice cream for breakfast. She let David stay up late." Sarah looked at Claire, pleading for understanding. "We were kids, Claire. We didn't want the sad mom back. We wanted the fun mom."

"So you knew," Claire said, her stomach twisting. "You knew it wasn't her."

"I knew she didn't have the scar," Sarah whispered. "On her hand. From the oven burn. The new mom's hands were smooth."

"And you didn't say anything?"

"To who? Dad?" Sarah let out a short, hysterical laugh. "Dad was the one who brought her home. He looked at us—at David and me—and he said, 'Your mother is feeling much better. Isn't she?' And he looked at us with those eyes. You know the look."

Claire knew the look. It was the look that froze bank accounts. It was the look that polished shotguns.

"We nodded," Sarah said. "We said yes. And after a while... we forgot. Or we pretended to forget. It was easier. It was safer."

"Sarah, listen to me," Claire said, stepping closer. "This isn't just about a lie anymore. The IRS is involved. There's a death certificate for the real Evelyn from 1992. Arthur cashed out her life insurance. He committed fraud. And now he's threatening us."

Sarah flinched. "I can't help you, Claire. I can't be involved."

"You are involved! You're a witness. If you testify—"

"No!" Sarah backed away, her heels crunching on the gravel. "He controls my trust fund. He controls my apartment. He controls everything. If I go against him, I'm destitute."

"I have seventy dollars," Claire said. "I have nothing. But I'm still fighting him."

"You're brave," Sarah said, and it sounded like an insult. "Or stupid. I'm neither. I just want to survive."

She turned toward her car, a sleek black SUV parked near the fountain.

"Wait," Claire called out. "Just tell me one thing. The woman... the second one. What happened to her?"

Sarah stopped. Her hand hovered over the door handle.

"She changed," Sarah said softly. "At first, she was fun. But then... she got scared too. She started locking her door. She stopped eating. By the end... she was just like the first one."

Sarah opened the car door.

"She used to talk about leaving," she added, her voice barely audible over the wind. "In the 90s. She'd pack a bag. And then Dad would take her into the study. And she'd come out... empty. Like a doll with the stuffing pulled out."

"Sarah—"

"She'd come back looking different," Sarah said, sliding into the driver's seat. She looked at Claire through the open window, her eyes haunted. "Refreshed. Or replaced? I honestly don't know anymore, Claire. Maybe there were three of them. Maybe there were ten."

The engine roared to life.

"Maybe none of us are real," Sarah whispered.

She rolled up the window and drove away, the taillights disappearing down the long, winding driveway.

Claire stood alone in the gathering dark. The house behind her felt like a living thing, breathing, watching. Arthur was inside. David was gone. Sarah had fled.

And Claire was left with a question that chilled her blood more than the night air.

*Refreshed. Or replaced?*

How many mothers had Arthur Vance buried in that garden?