[ 9 Weeks Separated, 4 Weeks Coma, 5 1/2 Months Home]
Two more weeks of frantic digging felt like trying to piece together a shredded map. Ethan lived on caffeine and cold focus, his bedroom floor covered in printed public records and scribbled notes.
He kept his distance from the hospital- it was too risky with Dylan and Kyson constantly hovering- but the fire in his gut only grew.
He started with the basics: Brandon Vance.
The digital trail was pathetic. Brandon had lived in the same three-mile radius for twenty years, bouncing between low-rent apartments and mobile homes. He had no savings, no assets, and a credit score that was essentially a flatline. He was the definition of run-of-the-mill struggle- a man who had fallen through every crack the world had to offer.
Then, Ethan turned to the past. He managed to track down a digital archive of the town's old yearbooks and spent an entire night scrolling through grainy, black-and-white photos.
1989: North Valley High.
There she was. Margaret. She had the same sharp, calculating beauty even as a teenager- head cheerleader, captain of the debate team, the girl who had everything.
And there, three pages over in the varsity football section, was Brandon. He was the star quarterback, wearing the same arrogant smirk Ethan saw on Kyson every single day.
The yearbooks didn't show them together. There were no "Class Couple" photos, no candid shots of them at prom. To the public eye, the cheerleader and the quarterback were just two popular kids in the same orbit.
Ethan needed more. He spent three days cold-calling names from that yearbook, pretending to be a local reporter doing a "Where Are They Now?" piece on the school's golden era. Most people remembered nothing, but then he hit a nerve with a former classmate named Sheila.
"Margaret?" Sheila's voice crackled over the phone, sounding weary. "Oh, everyone remembers that year. She was the golden girl until she disappeared three months before graduation. The rumor was she went to 'visit an aunt' in the city. But we all knew. She was pregnant."
"Did anyone know who the father was?" Ethan asked, his hand tightening on his pen.
"No," Sheila sighed. "She was terrifyingly private. She came back a year later, thin as a rail, and married Dylan Combs a few years after. She never spoke of it. And Brandon? Well, he got injured that same year, lost his scholarship, and just... stayed here. Rotting."
Ethan hung up, the pieces clicking into a sickening rhythm. Brandon hadn't just been a high school athlete, he was the ghost Margaret had been paying to stay in the shadows. He had been poor his entire life, barely scraping by, while Margaret lived the high life with Dylan's hospital salary.
Ethan stared at the photo of Brandon from eighteen years ago. The resemblance to Kyson wasn't just a coincidence- it was a bloodline.
Margaret had a secret. And if Dylan found out, his perfect life would shatter, and Margaret would be out on the street.
'Is that why you're so desperate to get rid of Annie?' Ethan wondered, his eyes narrowing. 'Because she looks like the woman Dylan actually loved, and you're terrified that if he looks too closely at his own life, he'll realize it's all a lie?'
*~*~*~*
The air in Room 412 was stagnant, heavy with the sterile scent of antiseptic and the rhythmic, mechanical whoosh-click of the ventilator.
Annie lay in the center of the bed, her black hair stark against the bleached white pillowcases. Her chest rose and fell not by her own will, but by the steady pulse of the machine. She was a ghost in her own body, drifting in a silent, grey limbo.
The heavy door creaked open, but it wasn't the soft tread of a nurse or the heavy, grieving step of Dylan.
Vanessa stepped in first, her blue eyes darting around the room with a mixture of disgust and nervous energy. Behind her, Peggy followed, her arms crossed over her designer jacket. She looked at Annie's motionless form with a cold, simmering resentment.
"Look at her," Vanessa whispered, her voice sharp and grating in the quiet room. "The Sleeping Beauty of LakeVille. Everyone is acting like she's a martyr. Kyson won't even talk to me because he's too busy sulking about 'the accident.'"
Peggy walked to the edge of the bed, her shadow falling over Annie's pale face. "She's always been dramatic. Even four years ago, she had to be the center of attention. Now she's got Ethan obsessing over her from the parking lot and your boyfriend acting like he actually cares."
Peggy reached out, her manicured fingers hovering over the bruise on Annie's temple. "You think she can hear us? They say coma patients can hear."
"Only one way to find out if she's actually in there or just playing the long game for sympathy," Vanessa muttered. She stepped closer, reaching into her bag and pulling out a small, sharp safety pin. "I bet if she felt a little sting, she'd wake up real fast. No one stays 'unconscious' when they're being hurt, Peggy. She's probably just enjoying the rest."
Vanessa grabbed Annie's limp hand- the one Ethan had held so gently only weeks before. With a cruel, petty smirk, she pressed the point of the pin into the soft flesh of Annie's palm.
Annie didn't flinch. There was no jump in the heart monitor, no flicker of her eyelids.
"Nothing," Vanessa hissed, frustrated.
Peggy leaned down, her face inches from Annie's ear, her voice a poisonous thread. "You should just stay asleep, Annie. Because if you wake up, I'm going to make sure Ethan knows exactly how much of a burden you are. You've ruined his life. He's a ghost because of you. If you really loved him, you'd just let go."
Peggy took her hand and roughly pinched the skin on Annie's forearm, twisting it until a small, angry red mark began to bloom against the fair skin. "There. A little souvenir for when you wake up. To remind you that we aren't going anywhere."
"Let's go," Vanessa said, glancing at the door as a cart rattled in the hallway. "This place creeps me out. She looks like a wax doll."
They slipped out as quickly as they had entered, leaving Annie alone in the hum of the machinery. The small red mark on her arm stood out like a brand- a silent testament to the cruelty waiting for her if she ever found her way back to the light.