The Twin

by Natasha Preston

  I kneel down and look under the clothes. Mom has transparent boxes filled with sandals, sneakers, and heels, and a few cardboard boxes. I pick up the first one. A shoe box that probably doesn’t hold shoes since she has those organized so neatly in a place she can see them without opening anything.

  Biting my lip, I lift the lid. Old photos of her and Dad from when they were together. I flick through the large pile, smiling and crying at the same time. They stopped loving each other but it’s so good to see that she kept the memories.

  I pop them back in the box and leave it outside the door. I want to keep them, and I know she would be okay with that. Dad might like to see them, too, or at least know that she has them.

  I open the second box and I’m instantly hit by the smell of old paper. There are letters and photographs. They’re things from Mom’s teen years. I pick up a photo of her and smile. She looks a lot like me and Iris, though her hair was lighter.

  I put it back and close the lid. This is private. I wasn’t a part of that life. I don’t know anyone from that time. She didn’t meet my dad until college.

  The last box is larger.

  I pull it toward me and open it. Sweaters. And underneath one of them…a book.

  Frowning, I pull it out. It’s a book about mental health issues in children, covering topics like personality disorders and psychosis. I freeze, my fingers tightly clutching the book. Why did she feel the need to hide it? Why did she buy it?

  She suspected something about Iris. Mom was a researcher. She never did anything without extensive reading. I remember her spending hours reading reviews on TVs before we went and bought her new one.

  What did she think Iris has?

  If Mom was researching this and Iris found out…

  Could that be why Iris pushed her?

  I flick open the page. The top edge is slightly curled, and the spine is bent. Mom had read this. If Iris knew that, she might have panicked and gone running with her that day.

  Oh God. I have to go back to the little bridge where she fell. When I was there last, I wasn’t looking at it as a murder scene.

  Bile hits the back of my throat. Dropping the book, I slap my hand over my mouth and close my eyes.

  One…two…three…

  I count slowly in my head as I breathe deeply through my nose.

  Mom had to have fallen. There is no way she could have been killed by her own daughter.

  You wish.

  All the signs point toward Iris doing something evil, but I don’t want to believe it. Mom would have been heartbroken if she knew someone she loved hated her that much.

  This can’t be right.

  But it is. I feel it in my gut.

  My eyes snap open as a tear rolls down my cheek. Chucking the book back in the box, I put the lid on and swipe the tear away. No more crying until this is over.

  There is way more to Mom’s death than a freak accident, and I’m not going to sit around mourning her until I find out the truth. She deserves that much.

  I push everything back and go into Iris’s room.

  Not that I expect to find anything since she’s a master at deception. Rule one in the psycho’s handbook has to be “hide the evidence.”

  I take a quick sweep, making sure to do it thoroughly. Just as I suspected, I find nothing in her drawers, closet, table, under her bed, under the mattress, hiding in her pillows, or behind any pictures. The floorboards are all fixed down, and the vents are sealed shut.

  Jumping off Iris’s bed, I grab my bag and head for the door.

  It’s dark but the flashlight on my phone is pretty decent. There won’t be anything left by now anyway, the slip prints in the mud will be long gone. We’ve had rain and storms recently.

  Yet I’m still going. I need to. I have to be where Mom died; maybe I’ll know then. Or maybe I’ll be just as confused, but doing nothing isn’t an option.

  I take the flights of stairs like I’m in some crazy race because it’s faster than waiting for the elevator. When I hit the bottom, I sprint outside and get in my car. Light drizzle hits my face as I run.

  I know the way. Dad drove before, but that journey is burned into my memory. It doesn’t take me long to arrive. The roads are much clearer at this hour.

  My heart is racing in the worst possible way. I was desperate to get here, but now I just want to run away.

  Iris is sneaky, manipulative, and an attention seeker. I’m not ready to think of her being a murderer. There is no way. She wouldn’t do that. There’s a reason she chose to live with Mom. She loves her and couldn’t stay away from her.

  But the very fact that I’m here means I’m willing to consider the possibility. Doesn’t it?

  No, I’m here to clear Iris’s name. Even if it’s only to myself. Kat hates my sister—rightly so—but to accuse her of murder is overkill. No pun intended.

  Mom fell. It was an accident. The police know more than a bitter sixteen-year-old girl. Kat is only speculating.

  She has to be wrong.

  There is light from the industrial buildings at the farm near the bridge, but I still hold my phone up, letting it light my way. I step slowly toward the bridge. The outskirts of the city are so quiet. I can see why Mom drove fifteen minutes out of her way to run here. It’s much better than a concrete track near her house.

  It’s unusually cold for May tonight, thanks to the rain. Dark gray clouds gather with the imminent threat of a downpour. I wrap my free arm around my stomach, holding Ty’s hoodie closer to my body.

  The road, which is mostly compacted mud, veers off to the right toward the farm. I don’t know Mom’s usual route, but I do know that she ran across that little bridge. I walk closer, my chest tightening with every step.

  I can picture her, blond hair tied up, black leggings and a neon top. Mom was a colorful person, always full of life and searching for the next adventure. She ran to keep in shape, though I suspect it was her way of forgetting everything that played on her mind too. Much like swimming is for me.

  She was probably happy here, running her route in the countryside, getting away from the business of the city. Mom felt safe here, but she wasn’t. Even if it was an accident.

  I stop at the spot where she slipped, my hoodie now damp. The skid marks in the mud have long been washed away, but I would never forget the place. I crane my neck and look over the side. The rocks at the bottom are a long way down. It’s deceptively high up here.

  Last time I was here, I didn’t get too close to the edge. I wanted to see where she died, but not the very spot she hit the ground. It’s slightly higher than I thought. Probably just under a standard flight of stairs high.

  Why would this be her usual route? She was deathly afraid of heights, wouldn’t even use a stepladder. Even if she didn’t look down, she wouldn’t come here if there was an alternative.

  There is just no way. I spin, taking in the surrounding area. There is a large field beside the bridge, and along the far side is a track. A public walkway. That’s where she would have been. I get why she would want to run in the countryside, but she wouldn’t be in this part of it by choice.

  Why was she here?

  Something made her take this route that day. Or someone.

  Iris?

  God, am I really allowing myself to believe Iris is a killer? She’s capable of making my life hell but to push your own mother off a bridge? No.

  An ice-cold shudder ripples down my spine but it’s not because of the chill in the air.

  I don’t have a single clue what I’m supposed to do now. It’s not the kind of allegation you can just walk into a police station and state. What evidence do I have? A feeling from two people that something is up with Iris. My mom didn’t like heights, but do I know that she definitely wouldn’t run over that bridge? Enough to be positive that her death wasn’
t accidental?

  No, I don’t.

  People conquer their fears. Perhaps Mom wasn’t afraid of that bridge because you have to be right up to the edge to see how high it is.

  Perhaps I’m trying to talk myself out of what I feel really happened that day.

  I don’t want my mom to have been murdered. And I don’t want my sister to be responsible.

  Taking a shaky breath, I press my fist into the swirling nausea in my stomach.

  Accusing Iris of murder could ruin my life. How would it be proven? How will I not look like a jealous, vindictive sister?

  Ty hasn’t said anything about being uncomfortable around Iris yet, though he clearly is. There’s a possibility that talking to him about this now is premature, but what choice do I have? There is no one else, and Kat has made it crystal clear that she doesn’t want anything else to do with Iris.

  I could try one last time. Send her a message and see if she would consider helping me. Before I bring Ty into this because I really don’t want to involve him.

  I pull my phone out of my pocket with trembling hands. Kat is probably going to tell me to get lost, and I can’t blame her if she does.

  I know you said you don’t want to hear from me again, but I need your help. Please don’t say no right away. Think about it? We can make people believe us if we work together.

  As if I’m conspiring to bring my twin sister down with her ex-bestie.

  I stuff my phone away and the enormity of the revelation makes my legs give way. Dropping to the ground, I put my head in my hands and sob.

  Please let me be wrong about this.

  40

  I get into my car and sit in the driver’s seat without a clue as to how I got here. My mind is buzzing, heart racing, and my hand shakes as I close the door.

  Gripping the steering wheel, I stare ahead. A light rain spatters the windshield. It hasn’t rained harder—at least, not yet. Maybe we’ll get away without a storm tonight.

  It’s getting late, and if I’m not home, Dad will go mad. But like at the park, I can’t move.

  Nothing quite makes sense. Then, at the same time, everything does.

  Iris is responsible for Mom’s death. No, Iris murdered our mom. She did it because she was angry that Mom had someone else and suspected there was something mentally wrong with Iris. As much as I love my mother, she was crap at hiding things. Iris helps herself to things in my closet, so she could have easily found that book in Mom’s.

  What was Iris scared of? Admitting there was a problem? Getting help? How her mental illness would look?

  I don’t have the answer to that. All I have now is a massive, heavy responsibility to handle this properly.

  My credibility is at an all-time low. Not even Dad or my friends believe me over her. Everyone, even Ty, has asked if I’m okay because I’m not myself. Only Ty believes that Iris is the one with the problem.

  Mom believed it too, and it got her killed.

  Would my twin do something to me if I confronted her? If I told Dad?

  He would speak to her and she would know it came from me. Groaning, I slam my head back against the headrest and turn the key in the ignition.

  I have to be very careful. Iris is dangerous.

  She’s alone with Sophie at her house right now. The thought makes me feel ill. Maybe my friends will believe me. Or maybe I’ll make things ten times worse and put myself in the line of fire.

  Shaking off my many thoughts, I put the car in drive and pull away.

  Driving takes more effort than usual. I have to think hard about every turn of the steering wheel and press of the accelerator, and I reread every sign I pass to make sure I saw it right. I’m hyperaware of pedestrians, though there are very few at this hour, even in the built-up areas that I pass through.

  But soon the landscape changes from tall buildings to farms, and I know I’m closer to home. Fields stretch out beside me for miles. The odd farmhouse with glowing light spilling from the windows is the only sign that I’m not alone on the planet.

  When I get back an hour and ten minutes later, the driveway is empty. Iris isn’t back. I let myself in, not caring to be relieved that I haven’t been caught. That pales in significance now.

  I drop my keys onto the side table, slip off my shoes, and head straight for the stairs. The bitch is going down. Iris might have killed my mom, and I need to know.

  Her door is closed, but she’s out, so I turn the handle and shove.

  With my pulse throbbing in my ears, I stomp to her desk and rip open the drawer. Grabbing the flip phone, I take it back to my room. In my desk is a brand-new charger for it.

  I sit on my bed, plug it into the wall and the cell, then wait.

  After the longest twenty seconds of my life, the phone illuminates. I sit up straighter.

  The cell belongs in a museum. It’s pre-smartphone and only has texts and calls. There are no messages. I open the sent texts and my breath gets stuck in my lungs.

  Ty’s number. I click the message and my heart pounds. It’s the photo of Logan kissing me. It was Iris and now I have evidence that she is messing with me.

  “Ivy, we’re home,” Dad calls out.

  Leaping out of bed, I rip the phone from the charger as I go. Holding down the OFF button, I dash out of my bedroom and into hers. I look over my shoulder, my heartbeat making it impossible to really hear if anyone is coming up the stairs.

  Placing the cell in her drawer, I carefully push it shut and back out. I slip into my room and silently close the door. Getting into bed, I shove the charger under my blanket and lie down.

  That was close. If I get caught, I don’t know how I will explain it.

  Well, I could explain it with the truth. I can get the phone.

  But it’s not the right time. I need to prove that she killed Mom, and if I go in now with a dodgy text, Iris will hide things better and I might never prove anything. When I go to Dad and tell him he backed the wrong twin, I want it to be for murder, not outing a kiss.

  Nothing would happen to Iris for that. Sending a picture of me and Logan to Ty is nowhere near the worst thing she’s done to me.

  Right now, she doesn’t know that I’ve seen the cell. She doesn’t suspect that I’m finally one step ahead of her, and I’m not going to ruin that by getting ahead of myself.

  It’s better that she thinks she’s smarter. Besides, there are more texts in the sent folder that I didn’t have time to read. I want her to use the phone again.

  Closing my eyes, I take a jagged breath as a tidal wave of emotion washes over me. Iris killed Mom. My heart tightens, and I curl my fingers into the blanket.

  Lying awake, I listen to the sounds of the house. I hear Iris’s and Dad’s muffled voices downstairs. Then two sets of footsteps creeping upstairs.

  I hold my breath. It’s unlikely that Dad will check on me. He’ll assume I’m asleep since I didn’t answer him. There has only been one time he’s woken me up before, and that was when Grandad went to the hospital in the middle of the night. He wants me to sleep as much as I can.

  Their voices grow louder, and then, with the closing of two doors, silence. I hear only the rain tapping on my window and occasionally a car passes the house. The night rolls on and on.

  Biting my lip, I turn my head, hating knowing that Iris is so close.

  She killed Mom!

  Tugging on my hair, I roll onto my side and press my face into my pillow.

  This is awful. There is a tugging feeling in my stomach, and time is barely passing at all.

  Sighing sharply, I look up and grab my phone off the nightstand: 3:16 a.m.

  Outside the rain beats harder on my window. I love it when it rains. Give me water in any form, and I’m happy. Tonight, it’s not working the way it usually does. I don’t feel calm. I’m on edg
e. My heart is constantly beating a fraction harder.

  Maybe I can sleep at Haley’s or Sophie’s tomorrow.

  That is, if they’re not still mad at me over something that isn’t even my fault.

  A part of me wants to be angry at them, but Iris is good at what she’s doing, so I can’t blame them for being sucked in.

  I don’t know what my next move will be. Proving my innocence is harder than I ever imagined it would be. I’ve lost all credibility. Everyone believes Iris and not me. These people have known me for years and her a matter of weeks. No matter what I say, I’m the jealous one. I’m the one who is suffering a breakdown over Mom’s death.

  How has she managed to do all of that so fast? It doesn’t make sense.

  She’s a master.

  Neither of our parents is manipulative, so I have no clue where she learned it. Must be a natural gift. I look over at my door. My desk chair is propped up against the door handle, making it impossible to open from the outside.

  I can’t say for sure whether she would hurt me, but I’m not taking the chance.

  Turning onto my other side, I yawn. I thought I was tired before Iris moved in. Since she started screwing with my life, my sleep has been cut in half. I’m lucky if I get three hours a night.

  When Iris is in the pool, practicing when I should be, I will get to be here alone. That hour will be blissful. I don’t have to worry that she will appear. I can sleep in peace.

  I rub my tired, stinging eyes and curl my fist around the quilt.

  She has my life, and she is loving every second of it.

  * * *

  • • •

  The next morning, I stay in my room. Chewing my lip, I grip the strap of my bag. I can’t come out until she leaves because I hate her, but I want to eat something before I have to get to class.