The drive back to the house we had inherited from our parents was a blur of frantic turns and a pounding heart. I barely remember parking the car. The groundskeeper\u2019s raspy voice echoed in my ears on an agonizing loop: She wasn’t in that car. Check your attic.<\/p>\n
I burst through the front door, the heavy oak slamming shut behind me. The house was suffocatingly quiet. It had felt hollow ever since the police knocked on my door three weeks ago with the news of the fiery crash. Now, the silence felt malicious.<\/p>\n
I didn’t bother taking off my coat. I marched straight to the second-floor hallway and reached up, yanking the cord to the attic trapdoor. The folding stairs groaned as they descended in a cloud of disturbed dust. I hesitated for only a fraction of a second before climbing up into the sweltering, dimly lit space.<\/p>\n
The attic was a graveyard of our childhood\u2014boxes of old clothes, broken furniture, and forgotten Christmas decorations. I grabbed a heavy metal flashlight from the top step and clicked it on, the beam cutting through the motes of dust dancing in the air.<\/p>\n
Loose floorboards. I swept the light across the sprawling wooden planks. Near the back window, partially hidden beneath a moth-eaten rug, the wood looked uneven. My hands trembled as I threw the rug aside. Three planks were visibly loose, the nails pried out and haphazardly set aside.<\/p>\n
I wedged my fingers into the gaps and pulled. The boards came up with a sickening squeak, revealing a dark cavity between the joists.<\/p>\n
Inside sat a heavy, fireproof lockbox and a canvas duffel bag.<\/p>\n
I hauled them out, my breath catching in my throat. The lockbox wasn’t secured. I flipped the latch and pushed the lid back. Inside was a chilling inventory: a stack of banded hundred-dollar bills, a freshly minted passport featuring Chloe’s face but the name “Elena Rostova,” a burner phone, and a plaster dental mold\u2014Chloe\u2019s real dental mold, completely intact.<\/p>\n
Beside it lay a pristine white envelope with my name on it.<\/p>\n
With shaking hands, I tore it open. The handwriting was unmistakably hers\u2014loopy, hurried, and sharp.<\/p>\n
Clara,
\nIf you’re reading this, the old man at the cemetery did his job. I\u2019m sorry to put you through the funeral, but I had to make sure the tears were real. The police needed to see you grieve. The girl in the car was a runaway; I swapped her dental records with mine at Dr. Aris’s office before I rigged the brakes. I needed to disappear. The people I owe money to are very dangerous, and they won’t stop until they think I’m ash.
\nThere is fifty thousand dollars in the bag. Keep it. Do not look for me.
\nLove, Chloe.<\/p>\n
I stared at the letter, a wave of nausea crashing over me. My sister was a murderer. She had killed an innocent girl and burned her beyond recognition just to fake her own death.<\/p>\n
“I really am sorry, Clara.”<\/p>\n
The voice came from the darkest corner of the attic.<\/p>\n
I spun around, dropping the flashlight. It rolled across the floorboards, casting a long, distorted shadow against the rafters. Stepping out of the darkness, wearing a dark hoodie and a backpack, was Chloe.<\/p>\n
She looked exactly the same, yet completely alien. Her eyes were cold, calculating.<\/p>\n
“You…” I stammered, backing away until my shoulders hit the chimney brick. “You wrote the letter. You said not to look for you. Why are you still here?”<\/p>\n
Chloe offered a small, sad smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a pair of latex gloves, slowly snapping them onto her hands.<\/p>\n
“Because I realized a flaw in my plan,” she whispered, stepping into the beam of the flashlight. “The runaway in the car? She fought back. She scratched me. If the police ever look closely at the remains, they’ll find my DNA under her fingernails.”<\/p>\n
My blood ran completely cold. We were identical twins. We shared the exact same DNA.<\/p>\n
“The letter wasn’t a goodbye, Clara,” Chloe said softly, pulling a heavy iron crowbar from her backpack. “It’s a confession. Your confession.”<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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