Page 76 of Count My Lies

Three months go by. At my request, Javier successfully petitioned for the case to be tried in Brooklyn, so I was transferred to a holding prison in Queens. It means I’m closer to Harper, but no one will bringher to see me. It means I’m closer to Violet, too. I know she’s out there, can feel her, hear her laughing at me.

Then, one afternoon, news. In another concrete room, just as bleak as the others, Javier tells me that Sloane Caraway has agreed to meet with me. She’ll be accompanied by the prosecutor. Javier will be there, too.

“Will you take the plea,” Javier wants to know, “if it is, in fact, Sloane Caraway and not your wife?” I nod. It will be Violet. I know it will be. She can’t help herself; she wants to rub it in, wants me to know she’s punishing me for what I’ve done.

“Good.” Javier nods, and I know he and the prosecutor have come together, both with the same goal: to stay out of the courtroom, to close the book on this case, on me.

I don’t care about their motivation. The only thing that matters to me is that she’s coming. I didn’t kill her, but when I see her, I might.

Two days later, Javier and I sit side by side in a windowless room in the cellblock, two empty chairs across from us. My ankles are shackled to each other, to the legs of the chair. A guard stands in the corner.

The room is stiflingly quiet.

I can’t take my eyes off the door. Any minute, she’ll walk in.

My heart is pounding violently in my chest. It’s like sitting at the top of an amusement park ride, legs dangling, waiting for the drop. It’s coming, you know it is, but you don’t know when. Now? Now?Now?

Finally, a loud buzzing. Now. My stomach plummets.

The door opens. Two women walk in: the prosecutor first, a tall woman in a boxy suit, gray-blonde hair, and behind her, Violet, her head ducked, dark brown hair silky and smooth. My breath hitches, catching in my throat. It’s her. A triumphant smile spreads across my face, adrenaline coursing through me.

Then she looks up. Her eyes meet mine, and my smile fades, drips from my mouth onto the floor, a puddle at my feet. Both she and the prosecutor take a seat on the other side of the table.

The woman across from me is not my wife. She looks like her, almost—the same haircut, the bangs, the heart-shaped face. She’s wearing Violet’s clothes, too, a crisp pin-striped shirtdress I always loved, the top two buttons undone, her gold sunburst necklace.

But it’s not Violet.

It’s Sloane.

SLOANE

32

I turn my key in the lock, opening the door to the Lockharts’ brownstone. The smell of freshly cut peonies fills my nose as I pause in the entryway, surveying the living room, the kitchen.

A dozen half-full moving boxes cover the floor, the kitchen counter, the dining room table. Books have been taken off the shelves, picture frames from the wall, plates and glassware from the cabinets, all bubble-wrapped and carefully packed. Two weeks ago, I put the house on the market; already six offers have come in, two over asking. The real estate agent told me she thinks we can close by the end of the month. By then, Jay will have accepted the plea, will be behind bars for good.

I smile, then start up the stairs. “I’m home!” I call out.

When I reach the top, the bedroom door at the end of the hall opens. Violet emerges. “How’d it go?” she asks.

“You should have seen his face,” I say, grinning. “I wish I could have taken a picture.”

She grins back, her face mirroring my own. Violet, my Gemini twin.

I’d almost lost her, so soon after I’d found her. We’d both been careless, letting Jay come between us, our feelings for him—infatuation in my case, hate in hers—distract us from what really mattered. But in the end, when it counted, we chose each other.

Three months ago, I stared at Violet in horror as she pointed a gun at me. As her finger slipped around the trigger, I turned, prepared to run, then, when the gun went off—the noise so loud it felt like my eardrums were bleeding—I dropped to the floor, my hands over my head.

When I realized she’d missed, I began to crawl, panicked, then scrambled to my feet.

It was something I learned in active shooter training as a teacher at Mockingbird—the only chance you have against someone with a gun is to run; it’s harder to hit a moving target than a still one. So I ran. I ran out of the bedroom, down the stairs, out the front door. I didn’t look back.

By the time I reached the road, I was panting and crying and yelling for help. I had no phone, no car keys.

Frantic, I started toward Anne-Marie’s house, legs pumping. Twice, I glanced behind me, but both times no one was there. Still, I kept running, my face streaked with sweat and tears.

I slowed only when I reached Anne-Marie’s house, gasping for air, lungs burning.

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