Page 22 of Count My Lies

Maybe not twins, but sisters. I’ve always wished I had a sister, more than anything. What makes it even harder is that there’s a chance I do have one, somewhere. I think about it all the time. My dad probably went on to get married and have more kids. And those kids would be my siblings. If Violet’s dad is from Philly, then maybe—No. I stop myself.

I smile back. “I visited once, on a school field trip.”

“You’re probably more familiar with the city than I am, then. I barely remember it.” She tells me about what it was like growing upnear San Francisco, how she and her friends would take the BART across the bay, how one day, she hopes to move back to California.

Before I know it, we’re back in the neighborhood, on the corner of Fifth and Smith. It’s almost eleven thirty. We’ve walked for just over an hour, two and a half miles, according to Violet’s Apple Watch. I’m hot and sweaty. Without even seeing myself, I know my cheeks are splotched red, my hair frizzy under my hat.

“Want to grab a coffee?” Violet asks.

I bite my lip. I do, I really do, but I don’t want to seem overeager. I know how strong I can come on. I need to bide my time, take it slow. No sudden movements, nothing that might scare her away.

“I would, but I have to get my mom to an appointment,” I say ruefully.

“No worries! I’ll see you on Tuesday afternoon, then? Harper gets home at one, so do you want to come over a little before?”

“Sure!” I say. “Sounds good.”

“Okay, great. Have a good weekend!” She starts to turn, then stops. “Oh!” she says. “I want to show you what I mean. Before I go.” She begins rifling through her bag.

“Mean about what?”

Triumphantly, Violet holds up what looks like a pencil. “What a difference brows can make! Come here.”

“Right now?”

She nods. “Right now.”

Hesitantly, I take a step toward her. She uncaps the pencil and leans in, then gently lowers my glasses. We’re almost the exact same height. Her breath tickles my face, warm and minty, and I close my eyes, feeling the light touch of the pencil tip against my skin. “Start at the thickest part,” she murmurs. “Then up to the tip. Down, then blend.”

Violet moves to the other brow, repeats herself. Then, “Okay, done,” she pronounces, stepping back. She takes a compact from her purse and opens it, angling it toward me. “So, do you like it?”

I study myself in the small mirror. My new brows shoot up in surprise. They look fuller, like Violet’s, darker, more arched. Even behind my glasses, my eyes seem brighter, somehow, the angle of my cheekbones more pronounced. She’s right. I do look different.

“How’d youdothat?” I ask, still staring at my reflection, turning my head left and then right.

“I told you.” She smiles, smug. “With this. Here, take it,” Violet says, handing me the pencil. “I have like three others at home.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

I take it from her, holding it like a treasure. “Thank you.”

She smiles. “See you Tuesday!” She turns, waves, and heads down the block.

My smile stretches into a grin. I can’t wait. I turn toward home, too. As I do, I catch myself in a reflective storefront window. For the first time in a long, long time, I like what I see.

11

My back and feet are aching by the time I get back to my apartment. I spent the rest of the day shopping for ingredients to make a celebratory meal for my mom and me, in and out of specialty markets: a butcher in Prospect Heights, an artisanal cheese shop in Park Slope, a French bakery Allison once mentioned. My arms are full of groceries when I let myself into the building and cross the small foyer to our apartment door, past the wall of aluminum mailboxes. The light above our door is on the fritz; it flickers on and off intermittently, like a prop in a cheap horror movie.

I set the shopping bags on the floor to open our front door. My key is in the lock when I hear my name behind me. It echoes through the linoleum hall.

“Sloane Caraway?” It’s a terse, unfamiliar voice. I stiffen.

Slowly, I slide my key from the doorknob, then turn.

There’s a woman in a police uniform, complete with shiny-brimmed hat, brass badge, black lace-up boots. The small metal name tag on her breast pocket readsMartinez, C. My stomach drops. I know why she’s here. I feel sick.

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