The DNA Sample

Elena’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic prisoner in the cedar-scented dark. Marcus remained at the edge of the attic hatch, a void of blackness where the light had been, his presence a heavy weight pressing the oxygen out of the rafters.

"I'm coming, Marcus," she called out, her voice a ragged tightrope. "I just... I dropped an old earring. I thought it might have rolled under a trunk."

She didn't wait for his reply. She scrambled toward the opening, her knees scraping the rough joists, the wheat-colored strand of Diana’s hair clutched in her palm like a holy relic. She descended the ladder, her legs trembling so violently she nearly missed the last rung.

Marcus was waiting in the hallway. He didn't move as she stepped off the ladder, his eyes tracking the dust on her sweater, the way she tucked her hand into her pocket.

"Find it?" he asked, his voice a low, vibrating hum.

"No," Elena lied, smoothing her hair. "It’s gone. Like so many things."

She brushed past him, the proximity of the syringe-holding hand from the bathroom making her skin itch with a phantom sting. She headed for the guest wing, the stack of towels she’d grabbed earlier still clutched in her other arm.

"Val is in the morning room," Marcus noted, following her at a distance. "She's quite shaken, El. You really should apologize properly."

Elena entered the guest bedroom’s ensuite bathroom. The door to the morning room was cracked, and she could hear the clink of a spoon against china. Val was there, performing the role of the wounded party.

Elena moved to the vanity. Val’s hairbrush sat on the marble—a high-end Mason Pearson, the bristles clogged with the dark, artificial chestnut hair of the imposter.

She worked quickly, her back to the door. She snagged a single, coarse hair from the brush and pulled it free. Then, she reached into her pocket and retrieved the fine, translucent gold strand from Diana’s scarf.

She slipped into the bedroom, finding a piece of white stationery on the desk. She used a strip of clear tape from the drawer to secure the two samples side by side.

The contrast was a physical scream.

Under the sharp LED of the desk lamp, the differences were undeniable. The hair from the brush was thick, the cuticle rough and bloated with chemical pigment, the color a flat, opaque brown. The hair from the scarf was a delicate filament, natural and luminous, the color of a winter sun.

They weren't just from two different women. They were from two different lives.

Elena stared at the paper, the final piece of the biological puzzle clicking into place. She had been living with a ghost and a parasite, and the parasite was currently downstairs drinking tea.

She folded the paper and shoved it into her bra, next to the brass key.

A shadow fell across the desk. Val was standing in the doorway, her eyes fixed on the empty hairbrush in Elena’s hand.

One was coarse and dyed. The other was fine and natural. They were different species.