Page 22 of The Locked Ward
I don’t know how long I sit on the edge of Georgia’s bed frame, trying to make sense of the overlaps in our lives. It’s like we’ve traveled down separate, parallel tracks that repeatedly twisted back together, mirroring the double helix strands of the DNA we share.
It strains credulity that Georgia set all this up. She couldn’t have known what kind of T-shirt I’d wear today or what book I just finished reading.
Still, the rich and powerful have ways of finding things out.
Georgia found out about me, after all. But she didn’t contact me until she was accused of murdering her other sister. Why?
My cell phone buzzes, yanking me out of my thoughts and into the present. It’s a text from my domestic beer distributor, letting me know his usual delivery will be delayed by a day. I reply that it isn’t a problem, then pull myself to my feet.
I’m here to get some clothes for Georgia, items that can’t be fashioned into weapons, I remind myself. Then I can keep digging into learning who my twin is and what she might be capable of.
I step into Georgia’s closet and flick on the light.
It’s like walking into an exclusive boutique, one filled with a curated mix of classic pieces and sexy, edgier items. But her clothes have been pulled off hangers and left puddled on the floor, and her shoes are overturned and scattered around.
The built-in drawers are open, with lacy bras and thongs spilling out, and her purses are a tangled mess on the floor.
I get to work setting things to rights, glad to have a concrete task to occupy my mind.
It’s a bigger job than I can finish today, but I pick up about half her clothes, smoothing out a black pantsuit with a deep V-neck and straightening a violet silk halter top, trying to figure out where each item goes before hanging it up.
It’s impossible not to covet her things as my fingers touch sweaters and coats, designer jeans, and gorgeous dresses in every shade of the rainbow.
Georgia’s shoes and purses are scattered on the closet floor, and I notice her feet are just a half size bigger than mine.
Her Chanel combat boots are so exquisite it’s hard to take my hands off them.
As strange and voyeuristic as this feels, it’s also tantalizing.
What would it be like to live like this? If Georgia and I had been given to each other’s families, this could have been my closet, my apartment, my life.
I choose some things that will work for Georgia, laying the items on her bed. Sweaty Betty sweatpants, a half dozen T-shirts, and a couple of sweatshirts. I start to put a bra onto the pile, then realize the straps could be used as a strangulation device. I add a pair of slippers instead.
I find an overnight bag in her closet and fold the clothes neatly inside.
I’ve finished what I came here to do.
It’s a ninety-minute drive home. I could swing by the hospital and drop off her things, then go home and get some sleep.
But there’s another option.
It’s Monday, the one night of the week my bar is closed. Lately I’ve used the time to catch up on sleep or go on a Tinder date, since I’m not seeing anyone special right now.
I could spend the night in Georgia’s apartment instead and drop off her clothes at the hospital tomorrow.
Surrounded by her things, I could begin to search for answers tonight.