The Good Twin(68)

Sounds wafted in from someplace far away. I struggled to open my eyes, and when I finally managed to do so, I discovered I was in a bed in a white room, bright light streaming through its one window. I turned my head and saw tubes running from my right arm to a pole, soft beeps emanating from a screen behind it. I was in a hospital. Why? My left arm was immobilized in a sling, and I felt a throbbing ache in my shoulder.

I strained to make out the voices that I’d awakened to. “Sorry, no one’s allowed in,” I heard a man’s deep voice say.

“But I’m her sister.”

“No one means no one.”

Charly’s voice grew louder, more hysterical. Then I heard a thump and someone call, “Get a nurse.”

My head felt so heavy, my tongue so thick. I tried to fight it but couldn’t. Slowly, the darkness descended once more.



Voices again. I opened my eyes—it was easier this time—and standing over my bed was a woman, a white jacket worn over her flowered dress, holding a chart in her hands, and next to her another woman in nurse’s scrubs.

“Well, there you are,” the woman in the dress said. “I’m Dr. Kessler. How are you feeling?”

The pain in my shoulder had lessened, but I still felt groggy. “Okay, I think.”

“Well, you’re a very lucky young woman. The bullet just missed your subclavian artery. You would have died before you’d gotten here if it were just a centimeter closer.”

“My arm?”

“It nicked your clavicle. We’ve operated to remove the bullet fragments and stopped some internal bleeding, but you’re going to be fine.”

I knew that wasn’t true. I would never be fine again. The sister I’d hoped would become my friend instead almost became my executioner.

“Where’s my sister?” I asked.

“She was here earlier, trying to speak to you,” the woman in scrubs said, “but the police haven’t cleared you for visitors yet. She collapsed while talking to them and was admitted. She’s just down the hall. Poor dear, the stress got to her.” She lowered her voice and leaned in toward me. “Her husband is dead. After he shot you, she tried to wrestle the gun from him, and it went off. Hit him in the brain. He died instantly.”

No. That wasn’t what happened. Charly shot me, then she must have shot Ben. I remembered the noise, an earsplitting sound.

“You’re lucky you have her. She saved your life,” the nurse continued.

Nothing made sense to me. Nothing at all. I closed my eyes and drifted back to sleep.



The next time I woke up, Detective Saldinger was sitting by my bedside. “Well, it’s about time,” he said when I opened my eyes. It was dark outside the window, and only a small lamp next to my bed illuminated the room.

“How long have you been sitting there?”

“Not long. Maybe thirty minutes. It’s the end of my shift. Figured I’d take a chance on you waking up. How do you feel?”

“Like someone shot me.”

He smiled. “Glad you still have a sense of humor.” He cleared his throat. “Mind if I do a bit of official business?”

“Go ahead.”

“First, for the record, what’s your name?”

I hesitated. I could tell him the truth, and Charly would go to prison for killing Ben, for shooting me, and I would go back to waiting on tables and squeezing out money and time for art classes. Or I could say I was Charly. My sister would still go to prison, but as Mallory. I would step into her life. I would have her money. I would own her gallery. I had trained for months to be Charly. Either way, Charly would be locked up. She deserved to be. I’d begged her to put the gun down, to put our relationship first. I wasn’t important enough for her. She deserved to go to jail. And I deserved to be rich.

“Charlotte Gordon,” I answered.

Saldinger looked confused, as I’d expected he would. Charly had to have told him who she was, who I was, and that Ben had been the shooter.

“Your sister says she’s Charly.”

“She’s lying.”

“She says Ben shot you, and she struggled with the gun, killing Ben in the process. Is that how it happened?”

“No. Mallory shot us both.”

He leaned in close to me. “Damn. It’s just what I told you I was afraid of, that Mallory might decide to go ahead and kill you and then take over your life. Just one thing is confusing me,” Saldinger went on. “Why did Mallory have the transmitter pen in her pocket?”

“After I got Ben to confess, I came back into the kitchen. Mallory asked to look at it, and I handed it over to her. She put it in her own pocket, but I didn’t think anything of it. It didn’t matter who was carrying it, did it?”

“It did. She turned it off so we wouldn’t hear anything.” He stood up. “Okay. I’ll let you rest now.”

When I was certain he’d left the hospital floor, I buzzed the nurse, and five minutes later she entered my room.

“Need something, honey?”

“Is my sister still in the hospital?”

“She is, just down the hall.”

“Is it possible for me to get up?”

The nurse nodded. “You should start moving around. Here, let me help you.”