Page 26 of Make You Mine

Mollie raises a dark brow, letting out a short laugh. “That I did.”

“Was it Chelsea or Claire?”

“Funny that,” Mollie replies, glancing over at me briefly as she lowers her voice a notch. “I thought it was Claire at first, but she said she was Chelsea. They’ve always looked alike and time has passed, so I didn’t press her on it.”

The redhead—Sarah, judging by her ID badge—hums. “You heard some of the rumors about them? Still, who knows what’s true? They’ve always been a bit odd.”

With a shrug, she slips out of the room as quickly as she came, taking the chart with her.

Mollie pats my hand gently. “You ring that buzzer if you need anything else, alright? I’ll be on the floor another few hours.”

She turns and starts to head for the door.

I stare after her, my breath catching on its way out. I’m so thrown by the sidebar conversation I just heard that it takes another second to grasp what’s been said.

“Sorry…” I choke out. “Did… did you say… Chelsea Hughes?”

The broth is warm, salty, and tastes only vaguely like chicken, but I slurp it down anyway.

My fragile stomach greedily accepts it. The toast is dry, bland, and slightly burned, but the crunch satiates me almost immediately.

The finishing touch is the apple juice, which is the small spike of sugar even the glucose injections haven’t been able to give me.

Mollie sits perched on the arm of the visitor chair near the foot of the bed, her badge crooked on her scrub top, white-blonde hair pulled back in a clip that’s come a little loose with the day.

She decided to take her break in here with me when I asked that she give me more info about the Hughes sisters.

“Well,” she says, choosing each word carefully, “they were always like matching bookends.”

My spoon pauses mid-air. “As in inseparable?”

Mollie nods. “Yeah. Very close. Haven’t seen either in years. Imagine my surprise yesterday when I saw one of them. Said she was Chelsea. But I’d’ve sworn it was Claire.”

“How do you know them?”

“Oh, from ages ago. Primary and secondary school. Small class, you know how it is. The Hughes family were the quiet sort. Kept to themselves mostly. Claire was the younger one, bit spacey if I’m honest. Chelsea was older, clever, more put-together.

Married young, though. Fella named Gareth Morris.

They had a little boy, sweet thing. Think they called him Jacob. Or maybe George.”

I blink, my mind snagging on every name. Chelsea never mentioned a husband.

… or a son.

“Wait,” I say, setting my spoon down. “She… she was married? With a child?”

Mollie lifts her shoulders in a half-shrug.

“That’s what I remember. It was all fine for a while, but Claire…

well, she was always a bit of a third wheel.

Followed her sister everywhere. Didn’t even go off to uni when we all did.

Stayed back, said she wanted to help with the baby.

Some thought it was sweet. Others…” She trails off, holding her hands up like she doesn’t want to spread gossip but can’t quite help herself. “All just rumors, of course.”

I try to process it, my thoughts still thick from fatigue and the hypoglycemic episode I had. “And the husband? Gareth?”

Her mouth pulls into a line. “That’s the sad bit.

Heard he lost his job and took it hard. Word was he…

well… took his own life. After that, no one saw much of the family.

I moved away, lost touch. Last I’d heard, no one had seen Chelsea in years.

Not since her husband passed. Claire emerges every so often, but keeps to herself… not that that’s surprising.”

She stands then, brushing invisible lint from her pants, trying to wrap things up like she hasn’t just delivered some dark and disturbing news.

“Anyway,” she says brightly, “I’d best get back to work. You get some rest now, yeah?”

I nod, but my thoughts are racing. “Thanks, Mollie.”

She flashes me a smile and disappears through the door.

I stare at the empty tray for a few seconds before pushing it aside and gingerly pulling back the blanket.

My muscles still feel weak, but I manage to slide my legs to the edge of the bed and lower my feet to the cold linoleum floor.

I take my time, moving slowly, careful not to tug on any wires or dislodge the needle in my arm.

Declan’s iPad rests on the side table, exactly where he left it.

I power it on and wait for the screen to brighten.

It only takes me seconds to log onto the hospital’s free Wi-Fi.

My fingers tap away at the screen, suddenly emboldened by the new pieces of information I’ve learned.

The fog that’s been clinging to my mind like smoke after a fire finally begins to lift.

It’s not immediate, not some cinematic snap into place, but I can feel it—the slow, determined stirring of my thoughts finally forming.

I’m driven not by strength, but by something more potent: resolve. I’m still sore. I’m still exhausted. But for the first time since I collapsed, my mind is mine again, and I’m not wasting another second.

I open the internet browser and type in her name: Chelsea Hughes.

The results are few and far between. A few old mentions on a parenting forum. A recipe blog with the same name, but not the right woman. Then I come across an old secondary school newsletter from Ashwick, sixteen years ago.

There’s a grainy black-and-white photo to go with it—Chelsea Hughes, age seventeen, smiling stiffly at some school event. My chest tightens as I lean in, studying the face.

It’s not her. It’s not the woman who’s been spending endless hours at my house, watching Emmett on the baby monitor or making flower crowns with Willow.

It’s not Chelsea. But it is Chelsea… a girl who looks a lot like her.

What’s even more disturbing is that I search through the archives some more and find who I thought was Chelsea but is really Claire; the same cardigan-wearing, bashful brunette with large glasses that I’ve come to know so well is pictured in a photo for a book club.

There she is—Claire Hughes with braces, clutching a book to her chest, looking nervously at the camera.

A cold sweat breaks out along the back of my neck. My heart thumps faster as I go back to the search engine and type in the name Gareth Morris next, chasing the trail with a fevered hunger that cuts through my fatigue.

This time, there’s more: a local obituary from years back and several news articles about the man’s death.

Local Man Dies by Apparent Suicide: Gareth Morris, age 39, found dead in vehicle from suspected carbon monoxide poisoning

But the article doesn’t stop there.

It goes on to discuss how Gareth had recently lost his job at Branley Paper Co due to Halberd International buying out the smaller company and putting them out of business. He was also rumored to be experiencing martial troubles with his wife, Chelsea, due to infidelity.

Other articles focus on how authorities had ruled his death a suicide, but there were odd details that went unsettled. Things like the supposed suicide note that was found at the scene and the fact that fact Gareth reportedly had other marks on his body in the autopsy report.

My mouth goes dry as I scroll to the bottom of one article and find a photo included with the closing paragraph.

Mr. Morris is survived by his wife, Chelsea, and their six-year-old son, George.

In the article is a photo of Gareth and Chelsea—the real Chelsea—with their son standing in front of their house. But not just any house.

It’s our house. Our home on Linden Way in Rosethorne.

I blink in cold horror, processing what I’m seeing. My mind immediately jumps back to a night many weeks ago when we’d invited Declan’s boss and his wife over for dinner.

Cormac slapped the table with his palm and leaned back in his chair. “Y’know, I knew the bloke who used to live in this house with his wife and kid. Name was Greg… no, Garrett… no, Gareth! That was it. Gareth something. Sad story, though. Poor sod offed himself ? —”

“Cormac,” Marge hissed, shooting him a sharp look. “Can we please be civilized at the dinner table?”

We hadn’t pressed him on what he’d said. Cormac Doyle was several drinks deep, and we’d met the previous owners of the house. They’d never told us a thing about the Morris’s. But why would they when they must’ve been eager to sell it off?

But it’s not even important in light of everything else I’ve learned. I’m much more zeroed in on the fact that the woman we’ve hired to be our nanny has been masquerading as her sister all along. For some disturbing reason, she’d assumed her identity and then proceeded to encroach on our lives.

My life.

She’s done everything she could to sabotage situations and ensure certain outcomes, manipulating me, Declan, and the kids every step of the way.

I think a part of me always suspected it, always sensed something was off, even if I always pushed it to the side and convinced myself otherwise. I told myself I was being unreasonable or unfair. That I was judging her too harshly or that it was my insecurity feeling threatened by her.

A perfume shouldn’t make me feel some type of way. Willow giggling with her in the garden shouldn’t matter, and neither should how she always seemed to conveniently be around whenever things went wrong.

And how I know with disturbing certainty that yesterday my insulin episode was no accident at all.

It was intentional.

My insulin was tampered with, and she was responsible. She’s been actively trying to harm me, because she wants me out of the way.

But all of it did. It did matter, because deep down I knew it would come to this.

I close out of the tab and push the iPad aside, fumbling for my phone instead. It’s the first time I’m even touching it in the last twenty-four hours. I dial Declan, frantic as I listen to the rings and wait for him to pick up.

“C’mon,” I mutter. “Babe, pick up! Pick up the phone!”

It goes to voicemail. I call again only for it to send me back to his voice inbox. Desperate and panicked, I type up several texts:

Call me back immediately!!!

Get the kids away from Chelsea

Get her out of the house

She’s not who she says she is

I call him yet again, cursing under my breath as it sends me to voicemail. It’s not like Declan to ignore any calls, let alone my calls, let alone calls from me while I’m in the hospital .

I could barely even get him to leave my side earlier, what could possibly be?—

My phone buzzes in my hand, Declan’s name showing up on the Caller ID. I go lightheaded from instant relief as I rush to answer.

“Declan, did you get my messages? You have to get that bitch?—”

“Hello, Amerie,” comes Chelsea’s brisk voice. “Feeling better, I hope?”

Air sputters from my lungs, I’m so damn shocked to hear her on the other end, answering his phone.

“Put Declan on the phone.”

“I’m afraid not. He’s a bit… preoccupied, see. We’ve been having such a lovely time together.”

“You fucking crazy-ass bitch,” I snap, my temper exploding. “Put my husband on the phone now!”

“Tsk-tsk,” she chides in a sickly sweet tone. “That mouth of yours. No wonder he’s come running to me.”

“In your dreams, you delusional psycho!”

“If you want to see him,” she continues like I’ve said nothing, “you’ll need to come home.

Alone. No police. No little tricks. If you try anything…

well… I don’t think you’ll like what happens to your precious family.

I have Emmett right here in my arms. He’s such a sweet boy. You can hear him for yourself.”

She pauses long enough for Emmett’s little coo to sound in the background.

“Don’t you dare hurt him!”

“I wouldn’t want to. But if you make me, I will.”

Hot, angry tears come to my eyes. “When I see you, I’m going to?—”

“You’re not listening, Amerie. You don’t make the rules, I do. Come home. We’ll get this sorted like women. But come alone… or I hurt one of the littlies. That’s a promise.”

And then she hangs up before I can even think to respond.