Chapter 3 - The Woman in the Other Bed
Emily backed away until her shoulder struck the wall.
The woman on the bed watched her with gray-green eyes identical to her own. Even the tiny gold flecks around the pupils were the same.
Nora moved closer to the monitor. “Her pulse is elevated. She’s been sedated.”
The woman tried to lift her hand, but a restraint circled her wrist.
“Help me,” she said.
Emily remained frozen.
The stranger’s voice was rough, as though she had not spoken in years. Yet the shape of every word felt familiar.
“Who are you?” Emily asked.
The woman gave a weak, bitter laugh. “Emily Carter.”
“No.”
“My father was Samuel Carter. My mother was Diane Mercer. I broke my left wrist at twelve. I was terrified of thunderstorms until Dad built a tent in the living room and stayed awake with me all night.”
Emily’s knees nearly gave way.
Those were her memories.
Private memories.
The woman continued. “At sixteen, I stole Dad’s truck and hit the stone mailbox. He told Mom he had done it because he knew she would send me away if she found out.”
Emily had never told Mark that story.
She had never told Julian.
Nora cut the restraint with a pair of trauma shears from her pocket. “Can you stand?”
The woman shook her head. “They keep me weak.”
Emily stepped closer despite herself. “If you’re Emily, who am I?”
The woman studied her face.
“I don’t know.”
A door slammed in the corridor.
Nora moved quickly. “We need to leave before they reach this level.”
She disconnected the IV and electrodes. The woman cried out as Nora helped her sit.
Emily searched the room. A cabinet held folded scrubs, medical tape, saline, and sealed boxes without labels. Beneath the bed she found a metal case.
The brass key opened it.
Inside were photographs.
Hundreds of them.
Emily at her wedding.
Emily standing beside Mark at a charity gala.
Emily sleeping in her own bed.
Emily entering her father’s old factory.
Emily buying the lottery ticket at a roadside gas station.
Each photograph had a date, location, and behavioral note.
SUBJECT DEMONSTRATES INCREASED FINANCIAL INDEPENDENCE.
SUBJECT QUESTIONS SPOUSAL INVESTMENT DECISIONS.
SUBJECT RETAINS EMOTIONAL ATTACHMENT TO PATERNAL LEGACY.
SUBJECT PURCHASES RANDOMIZED GAMBLING INSTRUMENT.
On the final photograph, taken two days ago, Emily was leaving the claims office after quietly validating the ticket.
Across the bottom, someone had written:
THRESHOLD ACHIEVED. TRANSFER APPROVED.
The other Emily reached for the stack. Her fingers shook.
“They used to show me pictures,” she said. “They said you were practicing.”
“Practicing what?”
“Being me.”
The corridor alarm began to pulse.
Nora opened another cabinet and found a wheelchair. They lowered the woman into it.
Emily picked up the metal case, the loose authorization page, and the lottery ticket. She placed them in her handbag on top of the cash.
At the far end of the room was a door marked OBSERVATION.
They entered a dark chamber lined with one-way glass. Through it, they could see several rooms.
In one, an elderly man slept beneath a monitor labeled H. WARD.
In another, a young woman sat at a table repeating a signature.
In a third, a child watched home videos while a technician asked questions through a speaker.
“What is this place?” Emily whispered.
“A replacement center,” the other Emily said. “They steal people who control money. They study them. Then they send someone else home.”
Emily looked at her. “Someone like me?”
The woman nodded slowly.
Nora shook her head. “That would require surgery, training, records, years of surveillance.”
“They have years,” the woman replied. “And they don’t always need surgery.”
She pointed through the glass.
A technician entered the child’s room carrying a silver headset.
The child put it on.
The video screen changed.
A waveform flickered.
The child’s expression went blank.
Emily remembered migraines she had suffered during the first year of her marriage. Lost hours. Dreams that felt like memories. Appointments with Dr. Vale that Mark had arranged because she was “overworked.”
Nora saw the realization on her face.
“You think they did this to you.”
Emily touched the scar above her eyebrow.
She had always believed she received it in a car accident three months before meeting Mark.
She remembered the crash.
Rain.
Headlights.
A hospital ceiling.
Dr. Vale’s face above her.
But she did not remember leaving the hospital.
The observation room door opened.
Mark stood there.
He held no weapon. He did not need one. Two security men flanked him.
His gaze moved from Emily to the woman in the wheelchair.
For the first time, he looked genuinely emotional.
Not afraid.
Not guilty.
Heartbroken.
He stepped toward the woman.
“Em,” he whispered.
The woman’s eyes filled with tears.
Emily felt the world tilt.
Mark had never looked at her that way.
He knelt beside the wheelchair and touched the woman’s hand.
“I told them not to hurt you,” he said.
The woman slapped him.
The sound cracked through the room.
“You left me here for seven years.”
Mark closed his eyes.
Emily stared at them. “You knew her before me.”
Mark looked up.
“She was my wife.”
The alarm stopped.
A new voice came through the speaker system.
Female.
Cold.
Familiar.
“Mark, bring both versions to surgery.”
May you like
Emily recognized the voice immediately.
It belonged to her dead mother.
