Page 27 of Dead to Me

WALK TO THE WHITE CAR.

I looked across the garage but stayed where I was.

Another message popped up.

YOU CAME THIS FAR.

I typed a reply.

SHOW YOURSELF.

Three dots appeared. Then they disappeared.

OPEN THE PASSENGER DOOR.

I stared at the car. Something about it felt off, but I walked toward it anyway. My footsteps echoed on the concrete.

Halfway there, headlights swept across the wall below me. A car turned into the garage from the ramp.

I stopped as a blue Mercedes passed slowly. An older couple sat inside. Neither looked at me. They drove on to the next level.

I waited for the sound to fade. When it was quiet, I reached the white car. The passenger door was unlocked. I opened it carefully. No one was inside.

The interior light came on. A manila envelope sat on the seat. My name was written across the front, not typed but handwritten.

MILAN

I looked around the garage. Still, no one was there.

I grabbed the envelope and closed the door.

The burner vibrated again.

STAIRWELL.

I turned. The door I entered through stood twenty yards away. My stomach tightened. I walked back. This time, I walked faster.

The moment I reached it, the phone buzzed.

DON’T GO INSIDE. OPEN THE ENVELOPE.

I leaned against the wall beside the door. Then I tore it open.

It was photographs.

At least twenty. The first showed Malcolm walking into a motel. Date stamped six years ago. Two weeks before my arrest. The second photo showed China entering the same motel twenty minutes later. I held my breath and flipped to the next one. China was seen leaving, wearing different clothes and with her hair tucked under a baseball cap. Next was Malcolm leaving. Then Warren, standing by his unmarked police car outside the motel that same night.

I looked closer.

“No.”

My mouth went dry. The next photograph was taken outside my apartment building. China wearing my coat. The camel-colored one I wore constantly back then.

She was climbing into my car. The date stamp showed it was the night before my arrest. I stared at it until the numbers blurred. The next photograph was even worse: China walking into the parking garage where the prosecution claimed I had been seen.

She wore the same hooded sweatshirt, and on her left hand was Grandma’s ring. There was no doubt now. It was my sister, my twin.

I pressed the picture against the envelope. I had imagined finding proof. I thought I would scream, cry, or break something when it happened.