Chapter 7 The Anniversary

# Chapter 7: The Anniversary

One month had passed since the gallery visit, and Russell had kept me on an even tighter leash. No more unexpected outings, no more visitors. The calibration sessions continued nightly, each more disturbing than the last, as Russell refined his collection of my screams to match Vanessa's.

I hadn't given up hope of contacting Gabriel Mercer again, but opportunities for communication with the outside world remained nonexistent. Diana had become more cautious after our gallery excursion, and I suspected Russell was watching her closely as well.

This morning, however, Russell's demeanor shifted. He entered the breakfast room with an almost jovial air, setting a small velvet box beside my plate.

"Do you know what today is, my dear?" he asked, watching me expectantly.

I mentally reviewed significant dates. "October 17th," I replied cautiously.

"Indeed. And exactly what anniversary might that be?"

My mind raced. Not their wedding anniversary, not Vanessa's birthday... Then it hit me—a sickening realization.

"It's been three months since I came here," I said quietly. "Three months since our contract began."

Russell smiled, a cold expression that didn't reach his eyes. "A quarter of your contract completed. And I must say, your progress has been remarkable. Open your gift."

Inside the velvet box was a platinum bracelet identical to one Vanessa had often worn in the photos around the house—a delicate chain with a small diamond-encrusted replica of the Blackwood family crest.

"Thank you," I murmured, allowing him to fasten it around my wrist.

"You've earned it," he said. "In fact, you've done so well that I've decided to mark the occasion more significantly. We're having a dinner party tonight."

I looked up in surprise. "Guests? Here?"

"Not just any guests. Special friends who appreciate my... work." Russell's eyes gleamed with an excitement I'd never seen before. "Tonight, we celebrate your perfect replication."

Throughout the day, the mansion buzzed with preparations. Staff I rarely saw emerged to polish silver and arrange elaborate floral centerpieces. Diana supervised my preparation with even more attention than usual, selecting a gown of deep burgundy that Vanessa had apparently worn only on the most special occasions.

"Mr. Blackwood has specific instructions for your hair and makeup," Diana informed me, arranging styling tools on the vanity. "He wants you exactly as she appeared at their last anniversary dinner."

As Diana worked, I tried to extract information about the evening's guests. "Will Dr. Keller be attending?"

"No," Diana replied curtly. "These are... different associates of Mr. Blackwood. Private colleagues."

By seven o'clock, I was transformed. The woman in the mirror was undeniably Vanessa on what appeared to be an important night—hair elegantly styled, makeup flawless, the burgundy gown highlighting every curve. Around my neck gleamed Vanessa's ruby pendant, matching the deep red of the dress.

"One final touch," Diana said, handing me a crystal flute filled with champagne. "Mr. Blackwood requests you drink this before joining the guests."

I hesitated, suspicious of anything Russell specifically requested. "What is it?"

"Dom Perignon. Mrs. Blackwood's favorite."

I raised the glass to my lips but didn't drink. "I'll save it for the toast downstairs."

Diana's expression tightened. "Mr. Blackwood was quite insistent."

"And I'd prefer to enjoy it with our guests," I replied with Vanessa's gentle firmness. "Shall we?"

Diana looked like she wanted to argue but finally nodded, escorting me downstairs to the grand salon where voices already mingled with soft classical music.

Russell stood near the fireplace, conversing with a small group of elegantly dressed men and women. When he saw me, he excused himself and approached, his eyes scanning me from head to toe.

"Perfect," he murmured, taking my arm. "Come, there are people eager to meet you."

The guests were an eclectic mix—about a dozen in total. Some appeared to be medical professionals like Russell, while others had the distinct air of wealthy patrons. As Russell guided me through introductions, I noticed something odd: each guest regarded me with unusual intensity, as if I were a rare specimen rather than a hostess.

"Dr. Ashford is a neurologist from Johns Hopkins," Russell explained as I shook hands with a silver-haired man. "He's been following your case with great interest."

"Your case?" I echoed, momentarily confused.

"Russell's remarkable work in identity transference," Dr. Ashford clarified, still gripping my hand. "You're quite the success story, my dear."

Before I could respond, Russell smoothly moved me to the next guest—a younger woman with sharp eyes and a clinical smile.

"Dr. Chen specializes in organ transplantation and cellular memory," Russell said. "She's published extensively on consciousness transference between donor and recipient."

Dr. Chen studied me with naked curiosity. "The resemblance is uncanny, Russell. You've outdone yourself."

With growing unease, I realized what this dinner party truly was—not a social gathering but a presentation. I was being exhibited to Russell's colleagues like a successful experiment.

As we moved to the dining room, I noticed the place cards were arranged to separate me from Russell. He sat at the head of the table while I was positioned at the opposite end, surrounded by the most inquisitive of the guests.

"Mrs. Blackwood," Dr. Chen began as the first course was served, "Russell tells us you've been experiencing some interesting psychological phenomena during your transition. Memory overlaps, personality bleed-through?"

I took a small sip of water, buying time to formulate a response that wouldn't betray my confusion. Russell had clearly told these people something about me—or rather, about "Vanessa"—that I wasn't privy to.

"My experience has been... immersive," I replied carefully.

"Fascinating," murmured a man to my left—Dr. Weiss, if I recalled correctly. "And the dreams? Russell mentioned the shared dream states were particularly successful."

What was I supposed to have been dreaming? What had Russell told them?

"The dreams have been quite vivid," I offered vaguely.

Dr. Ashford leaned forward eagerly. "And what about the pool? Do you still experience anxiety around water?"

The pool—where Vanessa had died. I glanced down the table at Russell, who was watching me intently, a slight smile playing at his lips. This was some kind of test.

"Water holds... complicated associations now," I said softly.

The conversation continued in this vein throughout the first two courses—probing questions about my "transition," references to experiments and observations I knew nothing about. I navigated as best I could, trying to give noncommittal answers that wouldn't contradict whatever narrative Russell had constructed.

By the time the main course arrived, I was mentally exhausted from the performance. Then Russell stood, tapping his glass for attention.

"Friends, colleagues, patrons of our work—I thank you for joining us on this significant evening." His voice carried easily through the large dining room. "Three months ago, we embarked on the most ambitious phase of Project Lazarus. Tonight, you see the results before you."

Project Lazarus—resurrection of the dead. The name sent chills down my spine.

"As you know," Russell continued, "the theoretical framework has been in development for years. The transplant successes you've witnessed in your own facilities—corneal recipients experiencing donor memories, heart recipients adopting donor preferences—these were merely the foundation."

He gestured toward me. "What you see before you represents the culmination of those theories—complete identity transference. Not merely organs, but consciousness itself."

The guests murmured appreciatively, several raising their glasses in my direction.

"Tonight," Russell announced, "we move to the final demonstration phase. Vanessa will recreate for us the exact sequence of events from her last day."

My heart nearly stopped. He wanted me to reenact Vanessa's death?

"A complete behavioral loop," Russell explained, "from morning routine to final moments. Under controlled conditions, of course."

"Remarkable," Dr. Ashford breathed. "And she's fully receptive to the suggestion?"

"Completely," Russell assured him. "The embedded memory structures have been reinforced through our calibration sessions. She'll experience it as compulsion, not coercion."

I sat frozen as Russell outlined his plans for this "demonstration." After dinner, I would be taken to my suite to change into a replica of the outfit Vanessa had worn on her final day. Then I would proceed through a series of actions mirroring her last hours, culminating at the pool where she had died.

These people were going to watch me "drown"—some sort of staged recreation of my sister's murder that Russell had dressed up as scientific research. The realization left me numb with horror.

As the dessert course arrived, a server placed a glass of deep red wine before me. Not the champagne I had refused earlier, but something that looked heavier, richer.

"A special vintage," Russell called from his end of the table. "From my private collection. A toast to Vanessa, and to successful resurrection."

The guests raised their glasses. I lifted mine automatically, the ruby liquid catching the light.

"Drink," Russell commanded, his eyes locked on mine. "Drink deeply, Vanessa."

Something in his tone triggered a warning. The champagne Diana had tried to give me, now this wine—Russell wanted me drugged for this "demonstration."

I raised the glass to my lips but didn't swallow, merely wetting my mouth with the wine. As I lowered the glass, I noticed Russell watching me intently.

"Delicious," I said with Vanessa's appreciative smile. "Thank you, darling."

But Russell wasn't fooled. I saw a flash of anger cross his face before he smoothed his expression for the guests.

As dessert concluded, Russell announced, "We'll reconvene in thirty minutes for the demonstration. Diana will escort Vanessa to prepare."

In my suite, Diana hurried to lay out a white sundress—identical to the one Vanessa had worn in photos taken on the day of her death. Her movements were tense, agitated.

"You didn't drink the wine," she said in a low voice as she helped me out of the burgundy gown.

"It was drugged," I replied simply.

Diana nodded, her eyes darting to the door. "Hallucinogen. To make you more suggestible for the pool sequence." She hesitated, then added, "I switched the glasses when I served dessert. He drank yours."

I stared at her in shock. "You drugged Russell?"

"Not enough for anyone to notice yet. Just enough to... blur the edges." She handed me the white sundress. "You have maybe twenty minutes before he realizes something's wrong. I've disabled the cameras in the east corridor for maintenance."

"Why are you helping me?" I asked as I stepped into the dress.

Diana's face hardened. "I was Margaret's sister. Russell didn't recognize me when he hired me—we don't look alike, and I used our mother's maiden name. I came to find out what happened to her."

The pieces clicked into place—Margaret's mysterious disappearance, Diana's cryptic warnings. "Did you leave the notes? The key card?"

She nodded. "Margaret suspected what Russell did to Vanessa. She was gathering evidence when she disappeared."

"We need to get out of here," I said urgently. "Both of us."

"Not yet," Diana replied. "Russell's guests are all on the visitor list."

"What visitor list?"

"For the organ recipients." Diana's eyes met mine. "Every guest downstairs received one of your sister's organs."

The revelation hit me like a physical blow. The intense way they had studied me, their interest in "memory transference"—they weren't just Russell's colleagues. They were walking around with pieces of my sister inside them.

"Their names are on a list in Russell's study," Diana continued. "Along with what organ they received and what 'consciousness fragments' they've reported experiencing. He's been monitoring them all, documenting everything."

"That's why he wanted me to reenact her death," I realized. "To see if it would trigger stronger memories in the recipients."

Diana nodded. "It's your chance to expose him. They're all here—witnesses, evidence, everything you need." She pressed something into my hand—a small remote device. "This controls the pool lights. When you're ready, press the red button."

As I descended the stairs in Vanessa's white sundress, I saw Russell waiting in the foyer with his guests. His eyes were slightly unfocused, his gestures more expansive than usual—signs of the drug taking effect.

"Ah, here she is," he announced, extending his hand to me. "Right on schedule. Now we proceed to the garden for the twilight sequence."

I took his arm, feeling the eyes of the recipients—Vanessa's unwitting hosts—following our every move. As we stepped outside into the fading evening light, I slipped the remote into my pocket and prepared for the performance of my life.

Not as Vanessa, but as Cecilia—finally ready to bring my sister's killer to justice.