The fluorescent light hummed with a low, agonizing buzz against the peeling white paint of the holding cell.

I sat on the edge of the hard steel bunk, staring down at my wrists where the silver handcuffs had finally been removed, leaving faint red impressions on my skin. The silence in the precinct was heavy, weighed down by the smell of cheap disinfectant and stale coffee.

Across the room, the small glass window of the visitation booth remained dark for a moment before the light flickered on.

Evelyn sat on the other side. She was wearing Mom’s favorite black mourning dress, draped over her shoulders like high fashion, and right on her left ring finger sat Mom’s vintage pearl ring—the heirloom Mom had promised to the daughter who possessed a steady heart. Evelyn had stolen it from the open jewelry box in the guest bedroom before the paramedics even arrived at the cemetery.

She lifted the black plastic telephone receiver to her ear. After a second of hesitation, I picked up mine.

“You look terrible in orange, Claire,” Evelyn’s voice drifted through the static speaker, dripping with condescension. “Blue has always been more your color anyway. Too bad the state provides such a dreadful shade.”

I didn't blink. I didn't yell or smash the receiver against the glass, which seemed to frustrate her. I simply watched her reflection in the thick laminate pane—the exact same high cheekbones, the same sharp jawline, and the faint, pale childhood scar just above her left eyebrow where we had fallen off the old oak tree when we were seven.

“You went through Mom’s things before she was even buried,” I said, my voice eerily calm.

Evelyn chuckled, a light, musical sound that felt entirely out of place in a police precinct. “Mom’s house belongs to the surviving daughter. And legally, right now, I am the only daughter with a clean record. You? You’re just a fugitive hiding behind my face.”

“Your face?” I raised an eyebrow. “Evelyn, we have the exact same DNA. But you forgot one tiny detail: a face can open a door, but a digital fingerprint leaves a corpse.”

Evelyn’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, her dark eyes narrowing. “Stop talking in your boring tech jargon. Detective Hayes bought my statement hook, line, and sinker. By Monday, the arraignment judge will deny bail. Grant and I are throwing our engagement gala at the grand hotel next weekend, and you’ll be rotting right here in this cage.”

She hung up the receiver with a sharp clack, stood up, and blew me a mocking kiss before sashaying out of the room, her heels clicking rhythmically against the concrete floor.