Page 62 of Make You Mine

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.

…ora 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 itisChelsea… 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 isreallyClaire; 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 inthe 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.

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