First Born(61)

I disembark the train at Grand Central and walk west towards my hotel.

That afternoon I’d breathed a sigh of relief, the pillow still covering her face, me standing three feet or so away, coming to terms with it all. I steadied myself and then removed the pillow. There are times as a twin when seeing your sibling is a shock. Most times it’s not, it’s perfectly normal, but once a year maybe there is something inexplicably unsettling about seeing yourself away from your own body. One time I saw my twin wearing a dress I’d also bought, unbeknownst to her, and the shock of seeing what it would actually look like on me shook me to my core. You see yourself in a dress through the mirror in a store and that’s one thing. You never get to see a full three-sixty of how it fits your hips or how your legs really look. That night I saw her face. I closed her eyelids, my fingertips covered the whole time because, although our DNA is practically identical, our prints are not. I straightened her sheets. I placed the blanket on her bed and the pillow back with hers. The room was quiet and dark, slivers of streetlight meeting her cheek from the slats of the window shutters. I knelt at her bedside and I told her I loved her.





Chapter 34


I walk from Grand Central to the park. I find a quiet place away from all the tourist hot-spots – the lake, the fountain, the zoo, the rink – and, using my bag as a shield, I slip off my wig and hat. Then I unpick the hem of my skirt until it’s down to my ankles.

Nobody ever tells you how fast you’ll become accustomed to luxury.

I walk into the Ritz-Carlton.

Serious luxury, I mean. I’d have been ecstatic with a superior double in a four-star business hotel. But this. That incredible double-window panorama of the park. My bathroom is the size of an average living room, with a tub that fills in about a minute and a shower that makes me want to stay in there all day long. I open the door and climb in. All the complimentary toiletries are Asprey, a brand I’ve never heard of, but now I’m not sure I can live without them. Maybe, with almost fifty thousand in cash, I won’t need to.

I let the water heat the back of my neck. My mind wanders. To Scott Sbarra. What he’s doing right now. Who he’s with. What he smells like and if he feels guilty about our ‘date’.

After an hour I slip out of the hotel and head down Sixth Avenue clutching the Faraday bag with my two phones within. Luckily my room is available again in the Bedfordshire Midtown Hostel, so I pay up front in cash for six nights. I leave, and take out both phones. I’ll appear on cell tower maps now. I’m traceable. I have a register.

Two messages from Mum. One is a photo of her, taken by Dad, sitting on the floor of our living room outside Nottingham surrounded by photo albums. Her eyes are red and wet but she’s smiling. In her hand is a photo taken at school the week we turned six. Matching outfits, matching pigtails, matching poses. The other message is her asking if I’m OK and if I’m eating. If I have enough warm clothes.

At 46th Street I head west a couple of blocks.

Three missed calls.

One from Martinez.

I call him back and he picks up on the second ring.

‘You OK, Molly?’

‘I’m fine, thanks.’

‘OK, that’s good. Listen, we may have a significant breakthrough on the case. We’ve had a witness come forward, a reliable one from what I’ve seen.’

I stop walking and two people bump into me and one of them turns and says, ‘Watch it.’

My temples throb. ‘What’s the lead?’

Don’t say it’s me. Do not say you want me to come down to the precinct.

‘I can’t say just yet but I’m working on getting a slot on Crimestoppers tonight, on network TV. High dollar reward for information, the works. I wanted to let you know that we’re working round the clock here, Molly. I give you my word.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Your parents OK?’

‘Yes, they’re back home now.’

‘When are you flying back to England? Soon?’

‘Next week.’

‘Right. I’ll text you with the details of the Crimestoppers show if it comes off. No promises, but I pulled a few strings, called in a favour, you know.’

‘I’ll watch it in the hostel,’ I say.

‘You still in the Bedfordshire Midtown?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You take care, Molly. Any concerns or questions you call me, OK?’

I find a Starbucks but I choose not to go inside. Another block over there’s a Dunkin’ Donuts. I step inside.

Two hours later I’ve drunk three cups of coffee and one glass of bottled mineral water, and I’ve eaten two donuts. Four out of five things have been crossed off my mental to-do list. I’ve edited and pieced together all the stock footage, screenshots, Reddit posts and photographs I’ve collected relating to Shawn Bagby’s incel past. It’s not the violent misogyny that will ruin his reputation. It’s not even the direct threats to women or the death threats made to so-called Chads. It’s the snarky comments about his own followers. A loyal subscriber will forgive many things: a lack of uploads, poor audio quality, lapses of judgement, ethical mistakes, proven cruelty. But ridicule your own subscribers, the people who watch your vlogs day in, day out, who see the embedded adverts that pollute each clip, who put food on your table through ad revenue, and you are done for.