Chapter 4: The Pecan Sandies Incident

That night, Michael still didn’t come to Maple’s room, only sending a text through a family group chat.

The phone buzzed on the nightstand. Michael’s message popped up, all polite excuses and half-truths: “Old friend called—can’t say no. Don’t wait up. Might be late, smell like Miller Lite. Get some rest, Rachel.”

Maple twisted her handkerchief, gave a few instructions, and let the housekeeper go.

She put on a little show for the staff—folding the corner of her pillow, straightening the quilt, giving orders with that sweet-voiced authority I’d never quite mastered. When the housekeeper left, Maple let her smile drop, rolling her eyes at the empty room.

For some reason, seeing Michael not show up, my anxious heart relaxed a little.

A strange relief washed over me—maybe it was hope, or maybe just a break from watching her take what was mine.

Maybe feeling sorry for the new bride, Michael visited Maple’s room the next day.

He knocked gently, carrying a covered plate. “Morning,” he said, voice low. “Thought you could use a treat.”

“The new chef is great at making desserts. You always crave these, so I had him make some.”

He gestured to Maple. “Try them.”

I looked over and saw pecan sandies—my favorite.

The scent wafted up, buttery and rich, dusted in powdered sugar. I remembered the time I broke out in hives at the fourth grade bake sale, Michael running to the nurse’s office with me in his arms. Someone as proud as Michael had never spoken so kindly to please anyone.

He almost never did things like this, not even for birthdays or Christmas. The warmth in his voice was out of character—an act, maybe?

I felt miserable and didn’t notice anything odd about the cookies.

Until Maple suddenly fainted, and Michael, while no one was watching, quietly took away the cookies and called the doctor…

Maple’s body slumped, plate clattering to the floor. Michael’s expression didn’t change as he knelt beside her, carefully sliding the remaining cookies into a paper towel and tucking them in his pocket. His voice was flat but urgent when he dialed the doctor.

Only then did I realize what he’d done.

There were peanuts in those cookies.

The truth hit me hard. I remembered the swelling, the itch, the fear that always came with peanuts. Michael knew—he always knew.

Inside, Michael kept watch at Maple’s bedside, carefully feeding her medicine.

He sat at the edge of the bed, one hand steadying the spoon, the other gently brushing hair from her face. His touch was gentle, his face carefully composed.

Tears welled in Maple’s eyes as she looked at Michael pitifully. “Honey, do you not like me?”

She turned on the waterworks, sniffling as she clung to his sleeve, her voice trembling with practiced vulnerability.

Michael’s eyes darkened for a moment, then went back to normal. He asked in surprise, “Why would you say that? Did someone say something to you?”

He played the part of the worried husband, voice laced with confusion, but his eyes flicked sideways—calculating.

Maple shook her head. “If you liked me, how could you not know that I’ve been allergic to peanuts since I was a kid? Even a little makes me break out in hives, itching like crazy.”

She rubbed her arms, feigning a shiver. Her tears fell, silent and showy.

With that, she shed a few more tears, looking so pitiful.

She let her sobs grow louder, hiccuping for effect. The room reeked of rubbing alcohol and stale ginger ale.

Michael looked heartbroken, quickly comforting her. “It’s all my fault—I forgot to remind the chef. I made you suffer…”

He wrapped her in his arms, his voice soft as velvet. “I’m sorry, Rach. I promise, it won’t happen again.”

Outside the room, Michael’s expression turned cold as he checked with the doctor.

His mask dropped the moment the door shut. Jaw clenched, brow furrowed, he cornered the doctor at the top of the stairs.

“You’re sure my wife fainted because of a peanut allergy?”

His tone was sharp, eyes narrowed—more interrogator than concerned husband.

“That’s right.”

The doctor tapped his clipboard, glancing back at the door. “Classic reaction—hives, swelling, the works. Good thing you called fast.”

“Thank you, doctor…”

Michael’s voice was a flat line. He ushered the doctor out with a stiff handshake, lips pressed tight.

Watching Michael see the doctor off with a dejected look, my heart was in turmoil.

I hovered near the staircase, torn between hope and dread. Was he onto her, or just angry at himself?

Michael…

Why does he keep testing Maple again and again?

Could it be he’s figured something out?

The suspicion gnawed at me. Was he hunting for the truth, or just hurting us both out of spite?

I couldn’t stray far from Maple. When my spirit was yanked back into that bead, Maple was already up, sitting at the vanity brushing her hair, totally fine.

She hummed an old folk song, combing her hair until it shone. Her cheeks were flushed, lips smiling at her reflection. She’d bounced back with unnatural speed.

Like her earlier suffering had all been an act.

Wasn’t it just an act?

She’d fooled everyone so easily. The thought made my skin crawl.

When I was six, I rescued her—she was nearly frozen to death in the snow, and I planted her in the backyard.

I remembered my numb fingers digging into icy dirt, the little sapling shivering in my mittened hands. Mom scolded me for staying out so long, but I refused to come inside until Maple was safe.

According to her, she became sentient then.

It must have been then that she started quietly memorizing all my likes and habits.

She’d watched me learn to braid my hair, to whistle, to bake the world’s worst brownies. She catalogued every story, every secret, every tear I cried under her branches.

In other words, she’d planned from the start that one day she’d take my place…

I shivered, suddenly cold. All those years I thought I was nurturing a friend—I’d been growing my own replacement.

That night, Maple sent someone to invite Michael back to the bedroom.

The message was sweet and formal—"Rachel’s feeling better, would love to see you, if you’re not too tired." She arranged the pillows just so, dabbed perfume behind her ears, practiced my favorite smile in the vanity mirror.

Michael refused again.

“My wife isn’t fully recovered. Sleeping together might make it worse. There’s no rush—we have plenty of time.”

His voice was soft, almost apologetic. He left a glass of water on her nightstand, his footsteps echoing down the hall.

Maple was a little disappointed, but happiness soon won out.

She rolled onto her back, humming a tune. “He must really care for me—he’s so considerate,” she whispered, stroking the necklace absently.

“Honey is so thoughtful—he really loves me.”

I looked at her coldly, only hoping that tomorrow, when we went back home, Dad, Mom, and my brother would see through this imposter and stand up for me.

I pressed my hands against the cold window, praying for a miracle. Tomorrow was another chance.