Chapter 3 The Blood Incident

# Chapter 3: The Blood Incident

A month into my contract, I'd learned to navigate Russell's world with precision. Every morning I woke at 6:17 AM—exactly when Vanessa used to. I brushed my teeth with forty-two strokes, applied lotion in small clockwise circles, and dressed in the pre-selected outfit laid out by Margaret. The calibrator rarely flashed red anymore.

But while I perfected my external performance, I secretly gathered information. The note about the two-way mirror had been my first real lead, though I hadn't discovered who left it. I now knew that the entire mansion was under surveillance—bathrooms, bedrooms, even the gardens had hidden cameras disguised as decorative elements.

I'd also confirmed that Russell kept his private study locked at all times. According to the staff schedule I'd memorized, Lawrence cleaned it every Tuesday morning for exactly thirty minutes while Russell took his weekly tennis lesson. Today was Tuesday.

After breakfast, I followed my usual routine, walking through the rose garden while Russell drove to his tennis club. The moment his car disappeared down the long driveway, I abandoned my planned path and circled back to the main house, entering through a side door rarely used by anyone except staff.

The hallway leading to Russell's study was deserted. I'd timed this carefully—Margaret would be collecting laundry, the chef preparing lunch, and the groundskeeper working on the far side of the property. Only Lawrence would be nearby, inside the study itself.

I approached the study door and knocked softly, using Vanessa's distinctive pattern—two quick taps followed by a pause and another tap.

Lawrence opened the door, surprise briefly crossing his normally impassive face.

"Mrs. Blackwood," he said, quickly reverting to his professional demeanor. "I wasn't expecting you."

"I need to retrieve something for Russell," I replied, using Vanessa's gentle but authoritative tone. "He asked me to collect a file while he's at tennis."

Lawrence hesitated, but his training won out. "Of course. I've just finished dusting. Would you like me to help you locate it?"

"No need," I smiled. "I know exactly where it is."

Lawrence nodded and stepped aside. "I'll continue with my duties elsewhere, then."

Perfect. Once he left, I'd have approximately twenty minutes before anyone would have reason to pass by the study again.

As soon as Lawrence's footsteps faded, I began my search. Russell's study was meticulously organized—leather-bound books arranged by height, papers stacked at perfect right angles, pens aligned with military precision. If I moved anything, he would notice.

I carefully examined his desk without touching anything, looking for any documents related to Vanessa's death. The top drawer was unlocked but contained only ordinary office supplies. The filing cabinet was locked, as were the remaining desk drawers.

My gaze landed on Russell's computer. It was password-protected, of course, but perhaps... I moved the wireless mouse slightly, and the screen came to life, showing a login prompt.

On a hunch, I typed "Vanessa0917"—my sister's name and our shared birthday.

ACCESS DENIED.

I tried "VanessaBlackwood."

ACCESS DENIED.

What would a man obsessed with his dead wife choose as a password? Something only he would know about her...

I typed "ReplicaWife."

The screen unlocked, revealing Russell's desktop. My hands trembled slightly as I opened his file explorer, quickly scanning for anything related to Vanessa. There was a folder labeled simply "V" that contained hundreds of subfolders with dates as names.

I clicked on one from two weeks before Vanessa's death. Inside were surveillance photos of my sister, along with detailed notes on her activities that day. Russell had been monitoring her movements long before her death.

I reached for my phone to take photos of the screen, then froze. The room likely had cameras too. I couldn't risk being seen documenting this.

Instead, I memorized key details from several entries, then carefully closed everything and returned the computer to sleep mode. I was about to leave when I noticed a small safe behind a painting of Russell's grandfather—the cliché hiding spot suggesting Russell wasn't as clever as he thought.

The safe would have to wait for another time. I'd already been in the study for nearly fifteen minutes.

I slipped out and hurried back toward the garden, making sure to be in my designated position by the time Russell returned from tennis. When his car pulled into the circular driveway, I was exactly where I was supposed to be—admiring the white roses that had been Vanessa's favorites.

"How was your lesson?" I asked as he approached, the calibrator on my temple glowing green.

"Productive," he replied. "And your morning?"

"Peaceful," I said with Vanessa's serene smile. "I've been thinking about arranging fresh roses for the dining room."

Russell nodded, seemingly satisfied with my answer and appearance. "I have a conference call in ten minutes. We'll have lunch on the terrace at one."

The rest of the day proceeded according to schedule until late afternoon, when Russell announced he wanted to show me something in his workshop.

This was unexpected. In all my time at the mansion, I'd never been invited to his workshop—a separate building near the greenhouse that Lawrence had once referred to as "Mr. Blackwood's private sanctuary."

"What kind of workshop is it?" I asked as we walked across the manicured lawn.

"I create things there," Russell replied vaguely. "Things that help me... remember."

The workshop was a modern structure with walls of glass and steel, offering a stark contrast to the Georgian architecture of the main house. Russell unlocked the door with his fingerprint and ushered me inside.

What I saw made my blood run cold.

The space was filled with mannequins—dozens of them—all wearing Vanessa's clothes. Some were positioned in lifelike poses: reading a book, arranging flowers, sleeping in a replica of our bedroom. But most disturbing of all were the faces—each mannequin wore a lifelike silicone mask molded in Vanessa's image.

"Do you like them?" Russell asked, watching my reaction closely.

The calibrator on my temple blinked yellow. I quickly composed my features into what I hoped was an appropriate expression of admiration.

"They're... remarkable," I said carefully. "When did you start making these?"

"After the funeral," he replied, running his hand along the arm of a mannequin dressed in Vanessa's favorite sundress. "I couldn't bear to be without her presence. But they were never enough. They don't breathe. They don't blush." He turned to me, his eyes intense. "They don't bleed."

A chill ran down my spine. "Is that why you brought me here? To show me your collection?"

"No." Russell moved to a workbench where various tools were laid out alongside what appeared to be a half-finished mask. "I need to take new measurements. The calibrator gives me data on your facial expressions, but I need physical dimensions for the next generation of replicas."

He picked up a pair of calipers and approached me. "Hold still."

I remained motionless as he measured various parts of my face—the distance between my eyes, the width of my mouth, the curve of my jawline. His touch was clinical, devoid of warmth.

"Perfect," he murmured, recording the measurements in a notebook. "Now for the hands."

He took my right hand in his, spreading my fingers to measure each one. I noticed a small knife on the workbench beside us—the kind used for detailed crafting work. An idea formed in my mind.

As Russell finished measuring my ring finger, I deliberately jerked my hand, causing my index finger to slide across the blade of the knife.

"Oh!" I gasped as blood welled from the cut.

Russell's reaction was immediate and violent. He dropped the calipers with a clatter, his face contorting with rage.

"What have you done?" he shouted, grabbing my wrist so tightly I winced. "She wouldn't bleed! You've ruined the perfection!"

Blood dripped onto the pristine white floor, forming small crimson pools. The calibrator on my temple flashed red, but Russell was beyond caring about my facial expressions now.

"I'm sorry," I said, genuinely frightened by the fury in his eyes. "It was an accident—"

Before I could finish, Russell yanked my hand toward his face and, to my horror, began to lick the blood from my finger. His eyes closed as his tongue moved across my skin, collecting every drop of crimson liquid.

Then, suddenly, he froze. His eyes snapped open, staring at me with an expression I couldn't interpret.

"This taste..." he whispered, his voice barely audible. "It's just like hers."

A wave of revulsion washed over me. Had he tasted Vanessa's blood before? During what circumstance? The implications made me dizzy.

Russell seemed to regain his composure, though his breathing remained uneven. "We need to clean this. Come."

He led me to a small sink in the corner of the workshop and turned on the tap, holding my hand under the cold water. The cut wasn't deep, but it continued to bleed.

"We'll need to bandage it," he said, his voice now eerily calm. "There's a first aid kit in the drawer behind you."

I opened the drawer with my uninjured hand and found a white metal box with a red cross on it. Inside were the usual supplies: gauze, antiseptic, scissors... and bandages. Dozens of identical bandages, each printed with the initials "VB" in elegant script.

"You had custom bandages made with Vanessa's initials?" I asked before I could stop myself.

Russell took one from the box. "I had everything customized for her. Nothing but the best for my wife." He wrapped the bandage around my finger with surprising gentleness. "There. Now we can pretend this never happened."

But his eyes told a different story. The incident had disturbed him deeply, and not just because of the blood. There was something about the taste that had triggered him—something he couldn't ignore.

"Russell," I ventured carefully, "you said my blood tastes like Vanessa's. How would you know that?"

His eyes darkened. "There are things about my relationship with your sister that you will never understand, Cecilia." He closed the first aid kit with a snap. "We're finished here for today. Return to the house and change before dinner. That blouse is ruined."

As I walked back to the mansion alone, my mind raced. The blood incident had revealed something crucial about Russell—his obsession with Vanessa went beyond mere appearance or behavior. He had intimate knowledge of her that bordered on the macabre.

And his reaction to tasting my blood suggested that genetic similarity between twins extended to details I'd never considered. If our blood tasted the same to him, what else might be identical? And how could I use this to my advantage?

In my suite, I changed out of the blood-stained blouse, carefully preserving it in a plastic bag I hid beneath the false bottom of my suitcase, alongside Vanessa's autopsy report. The blood and Russell's saliva might contain DNA evidence I could use later.

As I selected a new blouse—one identical to the stained one, as Russell would expect—I noticed a small package on my dressing table that hadn't been there before. Inside was a box of bandages—regular ones, without Vanessa's initials.

Beneath them was another note in the same handwriting as before:

"Be careful. He keeps records of everything."

Someone was watching out for me. But who? And why?

I tucked the plain bandages into my drawer and applied one to my finger, removing Vanessa's initialed one. A small act of rebellion, but it felt significant.

That night at dinner, Russell was unusually quiet, his eyes frequently darting to my bandaged finger. When he finally spoke, his words sent ice through my veins.

"I've been thinking, Cecilia. It's time to accelerate your transformation. Tomorrow we begin phase two."