The Good Twin(70)

CHAPTER 49

I stuck to my story. I was Charly Gordon. The person who’d shot Ben and me was my sister. Charly was arraigned on charges of second-degree murder, and bail was denied. As I’d predicted, my grandfather’s protestations that I was really Mallory were dismissed. After all, what reason would Charly have to shoot me? Mallory was the one who had schemed to get Charly’s money. Mallory had to be the one to shoot Charly. I had been shot; therefore, I must be Charly. It helped that science couldn’t prove otherwise. We shared the same DNA, and since neither of us had ever been fingerprinted, there was no record to compare.

I returned to Charly’s townhouse—now mine—after I was released from the hospital, and a few days later went to the gallery. Much as I liked the idea of owning a gallery, my months of dreaming about Paris and studying there were too great a temptation. I offered Sandy the chance to buy it from me, with only a small down payment. I agreed to finance it with very generous terms. She jumped on the offer.

I knew I would have to return for my sister’s trial—after all, I was the key witness—but that would be months away. Maybe close to a year—unless she agreed to a plea. I doubted she’d do that. She hadn’t wavered on her insistence that I was Mallory, not her. I would need to return for Clark’s and Mullin’s trials as well, if they didn’t take pleas.

Two weeks after I had been released from the hospital, I flew to Paris. I stayed in a hotel rather than search for an apartment. After all, money was no object. At first, I just lost myself in the city. I went to every museum, then started all over and went to each a second time. It seemed like every few streets had artists displaying their work, especially along the Seine, and I stopped to admire and chat with each one. Finally, I enrolled in the Paris College of Art and began taking art classes. The school taught classes in English and led to a US-recognized bachelor of arts degree.

At the end of the day, I’d return to my hotel room and wonder if I’d done the right thing. I had more money than I’d ever spend in my lifetime. I could buy anything and go anywhere. I was finally studying art full-time. But I was alone, with no family and few friends.

Was it worth it? I often asked myself. I didn’t know the answer.



Seven months later, I returned to New York for Charly’s trial. The assistant district attorney trying her case had scheduled my trial preparation for 2:00 p.m., but before I met with her, I drove to Riker’s Island, where Charly was jailed.

When she was brought into the visitor’s room, I did a double take. She looked like I had when I’d first met Ben. Her hair color had returned to its natural shade, and her hair was longer and unshaped. She’d also gained weight on the prison’s carbohydrate-rich diet.

“Did you come here to gloat?” Charly asked me when she sat down at the visitor’s table.

I wasn’t sure myself why I’d come. “How are you doing?”

“How do you think?”

I wanted to hate her. I’d wanted her to suffer, for taking away from me the one thing I’d wanted most—a sister to love. How could I love someone who chose revenge over sisterhood? I’d taken her place and her money and sent her to jail. And I was miserable.

I made an instant decision. “I’m going to tell the truth. About who you are and who I am.” I think some part of me always knew I wouldn’t go through with my deception. I’d been so angry at Charly that I had been willing to pretend what I was doing was justified. But over the months, as I’d lived out my dream, I knew it was unfair.

She stared at me without saying a word.

For months, I had convinced myself that Charly needed to be punished. Now, sitting across from my sister, I finally acknowledged that Ben wouldn’t have gone through with his scheme if I hadn’t agreed. How could I hold Charly accountable without being answerable myself? “And I’m going to tell them that Ben had the gun.”

At that, tears began to roll down Charly’s cheeks. “Thank you,” she whispered.

I left Riker’s Island and headed to downtown Manhattan, where the New York County District Attorney’s office was located. I went through security and then took the elevator to Elise Goldman’s office. She was ready for me. I sat down. “Before you say anything,” I began, “I need to tell you what really happened.”

When I finished, she sat back in her chair, tapping her pencil on the desk. After a while, she said, “You can be charged with obstruction of justice, you know. On top of charges for conspiracy to commit murder.”

“I know.”

“Why are you changing your story now? Why didn’t you tell the truth from the beginning?”

“I had spent months becoming Charlotte Gordon. When I woke up in the hospital, I was so confused, I believed I was her. And then, when I realized I wasn’t, I wanted to be. I didn’t want to be Mallory Holcolm, who’d been unhappy most of her life. I wanted to live the life Charly had.” I hung my head down and whispered, “I know it was wrong.”

Goldman just shook her head. She stood up, then read me my rights. She called for an officer to take me away. Once again, I was trading places with my sister.



Five days later, we were both released from jail. The district attorney still needed my testimony in Clark’s trial, so he had allowed me to plead guilty to a reduced charge with a recommended sentence of five years’ probation. He could have sent me to jail for a long time, but Charly didn’t want him to press charges against me for my lies that sent her to jail. I think the DA felt sorry for me. After all, I’d been shot. And since I now backed Charly’s version of Ben’s death, he no longer had a case against her.