Page 20 of The Locked Ward

Clouds of pink and purple blooms adorn the graceful crepe myrtle trees lining Georgia’s street. I stand outside her building, looking up at the glass-and-steel structure silhouetted against the clear blue sky.

Her block is filled with high-end boutiques, a French bistro, and a gourmet coffee shop. It’s easy to visualize Georgia moving through her neighborhood, popping into the corner shop for a morning latte or unwinding after a long day with a glass of wine at the bistro’s bar.

I reach for her building’s door and pull, putting some muscle into it because the thick glass is heavy. I step inside and see there’s a concierge in a dark suit behind a desk. Another gatekeeper.

The reception area is gorgeous, with a soaring ceiling and arrangements of birds-of-paradise scattered throughout and furniture that encourages lounging.

Classical music plays softly over speakers.

It looks more like a high-end hotel than an apartment building.

Maybe I should’ve worn something nicer than the jeans and Florence and the Machine T-shirt I changed into after I left the hospital.

“How can I help you?” the concierge asks as I approach.

Now that I’m close enough to see over the edge of his desk, I notice he has a row of monitors in front of him, allowing him to view all the public areas of the building.

I’ve thought about different options for what I could say, and nothing seems as simple and powerful as the truth.

I give my best winning smile. “Georgia Cartwright asked her lawyer to give me her keys. I’m going to collect some clothes from her apartment for her.”

I hold up the keys on the Gucci chain.

The concierge’s expression gives nothing away, but this has to be titillating for him.

A possible murderess lived in his building.

Even with all the camera monitors and other layers of security, danger lived and breathed here.

Is it a story he relishes telling when he kicks back with the guys for a beer after work?

Does he search his memory, finding details about Georgia that didn’t seem significant at first—a dispute with a neighbor over noise, a certain hard glitter in her eyes when she was inconvenienced—and fitting them into the new picture he holds of my sister?

“Can you give me a moment?” the concierge asks.

I don’t have much of a choice, so I nod. He gestures toward the seating area.

“Make yourself comfortable. There’s a Keurig machine in the far corner if you’d like coffee.”

The last thing I need is caffeine; I’m jittery enough. I take the first seat I see and swivel my body so I can look at the concierge.

He’s on the phone. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I see him holding the receiver. He looks at me, then yanks his eyes away when he notices I’m watching.

After a moment, he hangs up and stands, gesturing for me to come over.

“Since Georgia has authorized you to access her apartment, I can let you up. I’ll just need to see some ID first.”

A tinge of unease runs down my spine. I’d rather him not know my true name. But I can’t see any way around it. I’m more eager to see Georgia’s place than I am to preserve my anonymity. I hand over my driver’s license, and the concierge takes down my name and address.

“There’s one other thing.” He looks up at me, still holding on to my license.

“We’ve been getting messages for Georgia.

One of her clients keeps calling. She and her mother even came by here the other day, but we couldn’t let them into the apartment without authorization.

They say Georgia has something that belongs to them. ”

I have no idea how to respond.

He continues, “Since you’re one of her legal representatives, I guess I should give the messages to you. Hold on a moment.”

I don’t correct him. I don’t want to say anything that would lose me access to her apartment.

The concierge clicks on his computer, and a moment later, a printer spits out a piece of paper.

He hands it to me along with my license. “Have a good day.”

I thank him and tuck my license into my wallet, then fold the sheet of paper and put it in my purse as I walk to the elevator bank and press the call button. The doors to the middle elevator glide open. I step in and press PH for penthouse. Nothing happens. I press the button again, frowning.

Then I look down at the keys in my hand and realize there’s a circular fob on the chain, just like the nurses from the locked ward use to access the fifth floor.

It’s another layer of security. I touch it to the sensor in the elevator, then press PH again.

This time, the button lights up and the door close.

The elevator soars up. Through its glass walls, I watch the lobby retreat, growing smaller with each passing second. The concierge is staring at me, his face upturned.

I exit when the doors yawn open, stepping out onto a thick gray patterned carpet. Wall sconces provide soft lighting for my path, and the air smells lemony fresh. I walk down the hall to Georgia’s home.

It takes me two tries to fit her key into the lock because my hands feel shaky and uncoordinated. Finally, the door yields. I step inside and shut it behind me, holding my breath in the silence.

Georgia’s apartment is shockingly messy.

It takes me a beat to realize why: The police must have searched it.

Her sofa cushions are strewn on the floor, and all her kitchen cabinets are open, with the contents tossed on the counters.

Dirt is scattered around the floor by a lush green plant, like someone dug through it.

Despite the mess, every detail of this apartment is stunning, from the panoramic view of the city to the walls of windows to the elegant pieces of furniture—the sectional sofa with a faux fur blanket tossed over an arm and a round industrial-style dining table made of metal and stone.

As my eyes sweep across the room, a sense of déjà vu grips me so strongly that the floor seems to lurch beneath my feet.

This place feels like home.

It takes me a beat to figure out why. Then my eyes widen as I look around again, taking in everything anew.

Though the styles and price points are different—and my living area is half the size—I also have a sectional couch and a round dining table.

Mine seats four, and Georgia’s seats eight.

My sister and I both chose soft patterned rugs for our floors.

The patterns aren’t identical, but the colors are: We went for shades of gray and rose.

My heartbeat quickens as I hurry to her refrigerator.

On the side, held in place by colored glass magnets, are several invitations—to a baby shower, a charity fundraiser, a save-the-date for a wedding.

I open the refrigerator. Tidy rows of glass bottles of Perrier, a half-full bottle of chenin blanc wine, almond milk creamer for coffee, two Honeycrisp apples—my favorite—in the fruit drawer, ten brown eggs in a segmented container, and a bottle of capers, the same brand I buy to sprinkle atop my scrambled eggs.

My adrenaline is pumping, filling me with a giddy unease. Everything here feels new and sparkling, yet utterly familiar. Stepping into my sister’s place gives me the sensation I’ve heard people describe as occurring when you meet your soul mate.

I spin around again, heady yet acutely focused, trying to take it all in.

The pristine white orchid on the dining room table.

The retro record player in the corner with albums pulled out of their holders and scattered on the floor.

The Nest reed diffuser that perfumes the air with the scents of eucalyptus and mint.

These are all features my apartment lacks.

But when I glance at Georgia’s music, in between Luke Bryan and Taylor Swift I spot a Florence and the Machine album.

Two rooms lead off the hallway. I peer in the doorways and identify them as her office and her bedroom. I walk into her bedroom first, gliding my fingertips lightly down the wall.

Entering this room feels like stepping into a cloud.

It doesn’t look like my bedroom. But it looks exactly like the bedroom I’d create if I had unlimited money.

Despite the mess left by the police—an overturned mattress and covers on the floor—it’s soothing and spare, with a soaring arched ceiling and walls painted the lightest of greens.

The wide-planked wooden floors gleam, and a huge window frames the ever-changing cityscape.

The closet door is slightly open, allowing me a tantalizing glimpse of the cashmeres and silks taken off their hangers and piled on the floor.

I sit down on the edge of her bed frame, and that’s when I see it.

There’s a paperback on Georgia’s nightstand with a bookmark in the middle. A chill runs through me when I read the title: The Age of Innocence , by Edith Wharton.

I have the same novel on my coffee table at home; I bought it just last month.

A roaring noise fills my ears as I stare at the familiar cover. How is it possible my sister and I are both reading it now?

It can’t be a coincidence; there are too many books in the world.

I feel like I can’t breathe. I drop my head between my knees until my dizziness passes.

Then I force myself to focus. I need to consider other scenarios.

Maybe the DNA my twin and I share has dictated our choices, creating these uncanny overlaps—and potentially more that I have yet to discover.

We wouldn’t be the first twins to experience this; I read about two identical twin brothers, both named Jim by their adoptive parents, who were separated at birth and went on to lead eerily similar lives, down to driving Chevrolets, vacationing at the same Florida resort, and marrying women named Linda—before both Jims got divorced and remarried women named Betty.

But there’s another possibility.

Georgia is a professional planner; she stages scenes for maximum impact.

Could she have staged these links between us before luring me here?