Chapter 2 - The Right Voice, the Wrong Face
Her voice was perfect.
Soft. Familiar. Warm in exactly the way my mother’s voice had always been when I was sick.
But her face—
Her face was wrong.
My real mother had gentle features that always looked a little tired, as if kindness had worn itself into her skin over decades. She never wore much makeup. Her smile was small and real.
This woman had dark, glossy hair arranged too carefully. Her lipstick was a violent red. Her smile stretched too wide, as if someone had studied photographs of warmth without ever feeling it.
I flinched before I could stop myself.
That was my first mistake.
The woman paused near the bed.
“Ella?” she asked. “What’s wrong? Are you not feeling okay?”
The note screamed inside my head.
Don’t let them know you can see.
I let my eyes drift slightly past her shoulder, unfocused.
“Just leave it there, Mom,” I said, praying my voice sounded sleepy instead of terrified. “I’m still a little tired.”
She did not move immediately.
She studied my face.
Not like a mother checking if her daughter had a fever.
Like a person checking whether a trap had already snapped shut.
Then she smiled again.
“Alright. Eat it while it’s still warm.”
She set the tray down and walked out, closing the door behind her with terrifying gentleness.
The second her footsteps faded, I fell backward against the mattress and pressed both hands over my mouth to stop the sound rising in my throat.
Who was she?
Where was my real mother?
And who had left the note?
Noah.
The thought arrived so quickly it frightened me.
Who else could it be? My parents—or whoever those people were—entered my room. Noah did too. If someone wanted to warn me, it had to be him.
But Noah had been strange since the crash.
Too careful.
Too smooth.
When I cried at night, he soothed me, but never with details. He stopped telling stories about our old apartment. He redirected every question about the accident. He always seemed to know exactly when my parents were nearby.
He could be my only ally.
Or he could be the reason I needed a warning at all.
I stood and crossed to the mirror slowly, staring at my own face for the first time in months.
I looked pale. Hollow. Thinner than I remembered. My dark hair fell in uneven waves around my shoulders. My eyes looked normal, but fear had sharpened everything else.
I needed proof.
Not panic.
So I opened the bedroom door and stepped into the hallway as quietly as I could.
The second-floor railing overlooked the living room below.
A man sat on the couch with a newspaper.
I gripped the banister.
“Dad?” I whispered.
He looked up.
May you like
And my blood turned to ice.
It was not my father either.
