The Good Twin(17)

I pulled away. Despite the brisk air, I could feel my face become flushed. I had no idea what to say to him.

“You could take her place,” he went on. “We’ll split her father’s inheritance. He’s worth over two billion. That’s one billion dollars for each of us. Just think what you could do with that money. Your life would completely change.”

He has to be mad, I thought. Completely and utterly crazy. I can’t be involved in this.

“No one knows she has a twin sister,” he continued. “We’d need to wait until her father dies. Then, after the killer makes sure her body can never be found, you step into her place and pretend you’re Charly. First, you’d revoke the prenup. Then, maybe six months later, a year at the most, we would divorce. Split the assets down the middle. You’ll go away then, wherever you want. Anywhere in the world.”

I could feel a rising panic and was having difficulty breathing. His proposal was terrifying and so very, very wrong.

“Just think about it. A billion dollars.”

I wanted to slap him, spit in his face, tell him how horrid he was. I wanted to run as far away from him as I could. Then, I thought about Charly’s rejection of me. She’d put money before me. Why shouldn’t I do the same? Why should I have to keep waiting on tables just to finance my art education? Why shouldn’t I have renowned artists’ paintings adorn my walls? I stepped closer and asked, “Just how would this work?”





CHAPTER 12

My heart raced the entire walk back to my claustrophobic room, and once I reached it, I locked the door behind me and lay down on the bed. Calm down, calm down. I hadn’t committed to anything, yet I felt as guilty as if I had.

I’d had so many questions of Ben, but he had to get back to his office. “We’ll talk again, soon,” he’d promised, before the Uber arrived and he left me, awash with fear and confusion. His parting words: “Promise me you won’t tell a soul,” he implored, “not even your best friend. I won’t do anything to Charly if you say no. We do this together, or not at all.”

I began to shiver and got underneath my blanket, pulling it up to my chin. I had planned to go to the Guggenheim today, before my art class, but now I felt paralyzed. Could I show up in class and pretend to Brian that everything was normal? Surely, he’d know that wasn’t the case just by looking at my hands. They hadn’t stopped shaking since I’d left Ben.

I had always been the good girl, the polite girl, the one who raised her hand in class and said, “Thank you” when given anything. I’d always worked hard and thought it was good for me, that it made me stronger. How could I possibly consider being a party to murder? To the murder of my sister, the only family I had left in the world. Yet, as I shivered under the blanket, I did consider it. I had no relationship with Charly, no ties other than our shared genes, and now never would. She didn’t want one. From what Ben had told me, she was nothing like me—not kind or polite or hardworking. Why did she deserve to be wealthy, and not me? Why did she deserve parents who showered her with affection when I was left with a mother too tired, or too burdened by guilt, to care for me? I thought of the kitchen in their home, the beautiful kitchen that I could spend hours in, cooking up delicious meals. I thought of her art gallery, and of the artists who were part of her everyday world. Why shouldn’t that be mine?

I didn’t go to the Guggenheim, and I didn’t go to art class. I stayed in bed, under the covers, and thought how lovely it would be to live Charly’s life.



Three days later, I took the subway into Manhattan. I transferred at East Fifty-Ninth Street to the Number 6 train, got off at East Sixty-Eighth Street, and walked over to Central Park. I was meeting Ben there in front of Bethesda Fountain at 10:00 a.m. It gave me two hours before I needed to report to work at Trattoria Ricciardi. It was a bright day, filled with sunshine, and the temperature in the low seventies made it unseasonably warm for October. At this time of day, the park was lightly populated. Mostly mothers and nannies with babies and toddlers. I got there before Ben and settled on a bench. I’d hardly slept since my last meeting with Ben, tossing and turning each night, trying to convince myself that Charly wasn’t deserving of the life she’d been given, then just as quickly acknowledging that it wasn’t my place to judge her and carry out the sentence. Then I’d think about Charly, about her callous rejection of me, and ask, “Why not? Why not be rich and be able to have and do all the things I’d missed growing up?” When I’d awoken this morning from the few hours of sleep I’d managed to get, I wasn’t any closer to an answer.

“Have you thought about my proposal?” Ben asked me when he arrived.

“I’ve hardly thought about anything else.”

“And?”

“I don’t think just looking like Charly means I’ll pass for her.”

“No, I don’t, either. It’ll take some work. My parents live in Florida most of the year, but they spend summers at a house they own in High Falls.”

“Where’s that?”

“About two hours north of here. It’s a country village with a sparse population, and no one there knows Charly or me. I never visit because Charly prefers to spend our weekends and vacations during the summer at her father’s beach house. My parents come out there when they want to see us.”