Page 36 of The Locked Ward
After I walk away from Colby, I move toward Harrison. The room is filling, and men in tuxedos are carrying around some of the live auction items—a pair of diamond solitaire earrings, a box of luxury Cuban cigars, a golden retriever puppy.
I move past the group of squealing young women petting the puppy and reach Harrison.
“Excuse me, but you look so familiar,” I begin. “Oh, I know where I’ve seen you. The funeral reception at the Cartwrights’.”
He nods somberly. “It was a beautiful service.”
“It really was,” I agree. “How do you know the Cartwrights?”
“Our parents have been friends for ages.”
That’s how these circles work: the same schools, country clubs, restaurants, and vacation spots—the wealthiest of families trace established paths, intersecting and mingling, strengthening their social spiderwebs.
“How about you?” he asks.
“I was Annabelle’s sorority sister.” I lower my voice. “Did you know Georgia well?”
He blinks sharply, and I wonder if I’ve committed a faux pas by being so direct. The very rich don’t tend to embrace outsiders without knowing their bona fides.
I press on, though. “I only met her once. It was obvious there was tension between her and Annabelle.”
“That’s an understatement.” Harrison tosses back the rest of his scotch, and I see a muscle tighten in his jaw. “If Georgia’s ex-boyfriend hadn’t ordered a psychiatric hold, she’d be in jail where she belongs.”
Her ex-boyfriend? I want to ask more, but Harrison excuses himself and steps away to get his drink refilled.
I mingle a bit longer, but don’t chat with anyone useful. When the auction begins, I slip out.
As soon as I enter Georgia’s apartment, I kick off her heels, flexing and curling my toes with relief.
Overall, tonight was a success. When Colby calls—it doesn’t feel like an if —I’ll suggest dinner. I’ll find a way to work Georgia into the conversation. His perspective will be a valuable one.
I unzip the black dress and slip out of it, smoothing it onto its special padded hanger.
I exhale as I roll down the Spanx that cinched my waist, then toss the garment into the laundry basket along with my strapless bra.
The single glass of champagne I drank, along with nibbles of passed hors d’oeuvres—grilled oysters smothered in herbed butter, chilled shrimp with spicy cocktail sauce—didn’t erase my appetite.
I’d kill for a slice of hot, greasy pizza.
Maybe this is how Georgia stays so thin.
I put on leggings and a T-shirt and then, since it’s relatively early, decide to tackle the rest of Georgia’s closet. I finish with the clothes still crumpled on the floor, then untangle the purses.
I pick up a hobo bag and hear the metallic sound of something hitting the floor. It could have fallen out of a purse, or maybe Georgia displays it in her closet.
I reach down and pick it up for a closer look.
I stagger backward, collapsing onto Georgia’s bed, as if I’ve been punched in the solar plexus. All the air rushes out of my lungs.
My mind reels, trying to create a logical reason for Georgia to own this item. But I can’t find one.
I’ve discovered eerie parallels between my sister and me before. But this one is different. It adds a whole new dimension to the secrets and lies swirling around me and my twin.
The pocket-sized St. Michael statue is an exact replica of the one my parents gave me on the day I was born, the one I keep on the high shelf of my bar next to their photo.
I’ve heard the story so many times: They came to see me in the hospital hours after my birth, but couldn’t take me home until a few days later because I had a touch of jaundice.
They left me the statue with the message on its pouch— Protect Me Always —as a talisman.
The shape, the muted brass of the metal, the size—everything is identical.
My brain is desperately trying to make sense of it all. Because this doesn’t compute. I’ve never known anyone who has the same statue and pouch as I do. And this one is timeworn, as is mine. It has the feel of something Georgia has owned her entire life.
The only explanation I can come up with is that my parents bought two statues. They gave one to me and another to Georgia. Twin statues for twin babies.
For thirty-two years, I didn’t know about the existence of my sister.
But all along, my parents must have.