Page 2 of The Locked Ward

It’s the Crime of the Decade!

The early-morning headline explodes across my iPhone as I scan it through bleary eyes.

I read the first few paragraphs: A woman from a wealthy, socially prominent family is accused of bludgeoning her younger sister to death at the family estate in Charlotte, North Carolina—just ninety minutes away from my one-bedroom apartment, but essentially in another world.

Pathological jealousy is the presumed motive.

Then I scroll through more updates involving war, famine, and the breakup of my favorite celebrity couple. I recently made a resolution to avoid checking social media first thing in the morning because it supposedly causes depression. I’m not sure the news is any better.

I stretch my arms above my head, then reluctantly pull myself out of bed.

One of my employees took last night off, so work was especially hectic.

At least I was filling in for my bartender Scott instead of the short-order cook.

I’d rather pull beers and mix Jack and Cokes than stand over a deep fryer any day of the week.

I step into my bathroom and twist the knob for hot water in my shower, then hesitate. I thought I heard a faint noise in the distance just before it was muffled by the sound of rushing water.

I listen hard and hear it again: the bright music of my phone’s ringtone.

Everyone in my life knows I work nights and not to call before 10 A.M. —which it isn’t even close to now. It could be spam. But something is urging me to turn off the shower and walk back into my bedroom.

My phone is on my nightstand, flashing the words Private Caller .

Probably a salesperson, I tell myself. But some deep-seated instinct overrides my logical brain, pressing me to answer.

“Amanda Ravenel?” The man’s voice is raspy and urgent.

“Who’s asking?” I counter.

“My name is Milt Daniels. I’m the public defender representing Georgia Cartwright.”

My mind reels. It’s the case I just read about, the one with the insanely jealous sister.

“Ms. Ravenel?” the man repeats.

My throat is bone-dry. If it weren’t for the hard, smooth feeling of my phone in my hand, I’d assume I was dreaming. “I’m still here.”

“Would you be willing to come see my client?”

I sink onto the edge of my bed, a feeling of surreality flooding me. Nothing about this call makes sense. I’d never heard of Georgia Cartwright until a few minutes ago. Why does her lawyer want us to meet? And how in the world does he even know I exist?

“Why?” I ask.

When he speaks again, his voice is gentler: “This may come as a surprise. Or maybe you’ve known for a while. Georgia is your sister.”

I bark out a laugh. His words are nonsensical; clearly he’s been given wrong information. “I’m an only child,” I correct him.

“And you’re adopted,” he replies.

I rear back, blood rushing between my ears. That’s not something I hide, but neither is it something I advertise. It’s simply part of who I am, like my gray eyes and dark brown hair.

“Let me call you back. What’s your number?”

I scrabble for a pen and scrawl down his number, then hang up and enter his name into a search engine.

He appears to be exactly who he claims. I watch a snippet of an old video in which he answers a question from a reporter, and his voice matches the one that was just in my ear.

My mind swims as I consider the information I have: He’s a lawyer, one who relies on facts and data. And he’s clearly checked me out if he knows I’m adopted. He must have a good reason to think his client and I are sisters.

But there’s something more tugging at me, something that goes deeper than logic and reasoning.

A piece of me has always felt missing, like a phantom limb.

I’ve carried around a hollow emptiness for as long as I can remember.

I’ve never been able to figure out why; I had loving parents and a good childhood—happier than most—and I’ve never had my heart shattered by a man.

The lawyer could be wrong.

But what if he’s found the missing piece in my life?

When I call him back, he answers on the first ring.

“Why do you need me there?” I ask.

“Georgia wants to see you. You’re the only person she has asked for.”

If I go, I’ll have to lean on my staff to run my bar, Sweetbay’s. But they’re competent, and it shouldn’t be a busy night.

“There’s one other thing.” I clear my throat. “The news reported that Georgia is thirty-two. So am I.”

“That’s correct,” Milt tells me. “She’s not only your sister. She’s your twin.”