The Inventory

Elena forced her neck muscles to relax, lowering her gaze from the blinking red eye of the camera. *Act normal.*

If they were watching, she had to give them a performance they would believe. The anxious mother. The frantic administrator. The woman who coped with crisis by counting beans.

She marched back into the kitchen, her movements sharp and jerky, pantomiming stress for the audience of two. She opened the pantry door wide.

"Inventory," she muttered, loud enough for the microphone she now knew was hidden in the smoke detector. "We need a full count."

She grabbed a clipboard and a pen.

*Canned beans: 12. Rice: 5 lbs. Formula for Leo: 14 cases.*

She wrote the numbers down with jagged strokes. Her mind, however, was running a different calculation.

*Oxygen: 48 hours. Generator fuel: 3 days. Sedative: 28 vials.*

She moved through the shelves, shifting boxes, creating noise. She needed to know exactly how long they could keep her alive before she became too expensive to feed.

The pantry was done. She moved to the mudroom.

The air here was ten degrees colder. The coats hung on the pegs like hanged men, swaying slightly in the draft from the door. Marcus’s parka. Her own down jacket. And Diana’s oversized, camel-colored wool coat.

Elena glanced at the camera in the corner. It was positioned to watch the exterior door, not the coat rack. There was a blind spot, a narrow slice of shadow behind the doorframe.

She stepped into it.

Her hands moved over Diana’s coat. The wool was damp and smelled of ozone and expensive perfume. She patted the pockets.

Left pocket: A crumpled tissue. A lip balm.
Right pocket: Heavy. Hard.

She slid her hand inside. Her fingers closed around a sleek plastic case—contact lenses—and a wad of paper.

Elena pulled them out, shielding the action with her body.

The contact lens case was unlabeled. But the paper was a receipt. Thermal paper, slick and crinkled.

She smoothed it out against her thigh.

*CVS Pharmacy #4402. Henderson, NV.*

Nevada.

The date was from three days ago.

Three days ago, Diana was supposed to be in bed in the guest house with a migraine. She had made Elena bring her soup and leave it at the door. *Don't come in, El. I'm sensitive to light.*

She hadn't been in the guest house. She had driven three hours to the nearest city, likely to meet Marcus, or to resupply.

Elena scanned the item list.

*Saline Solution.*
*Acetaminophen.*
*ColorSilk Luminista.*

Elena frowned. Hair dye.

Diana’s hair was a rich, glossy chestnut. She claimed it was natural, just like their mother’s. "Good genes," she always said when Elena complimented the shine.

Elena looked at the specific shade code on the receipt.

It wasn't a root touch-up. It wasn't a gloss.

It was *Complete Coverage - Dark Brown #4N.*

Elena touched her own hair. Dark Brown #4N. It was the exact shade of the Vance family hair. The shade Diana claimed to have been born with.

The woman in the living room didn't just have a fake name. She had fake eyes and fake hair. Every inch of her was a costume designed to fit into this house.

Elena shoved the receipt back into the pocket, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She wasn't looking at a sister. She was looking at a mirror image constructed in a lab.