Chapter 10
10
I’m hiccuping, eyes wet and swollen. I turn to the nosy neighbors in silk bathrobes. One person has his phone out, camera pointed at me.
“Are you okay?” Ramos tilts his head, brows furrowed.
“Y-yeah,” I mumble, breathless.
“Is the deceased inside?” a paramedic asks.
I nod, biting my nails.
While the paramedics enter with a stretcher, the police officer pulls me aside. I’m thankful the cop is a woman. I’m more at ease. I tell her the truth, the parts that matter anyway: I walked into the apartment, saw my twin’s body, made the call.
As she scribbles on her notepad, I catch her glancing at me. There’s a spark in her eyes, a sharp, almost accusatory gaze. It makes me antsy. Does she think I have something to do with Chloe’s death? Pulse humming with nerves, I clench and unclench my sweaty fists inside my hoodie pocket, feeling Chloe’s ring.
“Do you know how she passed?” she asks.
I shrug. Watch her make notes. She glances at me again. I want to crawl out of my skin.
A paramedic joins us, flashing the bottle of Elavil. “Do you recognize these?”
I saw them on the counter, so I nod. But why is he asking? Does he think Chloe overdosed?
“Are they your pills?”
I’m so overwhelmed with the idea of Chloe overdosing that I nod without thinking. When I realize what he asked, I don’t have the chance to correct myself because he moves on to the next question.
“Did your sister have a history with substance abuse?”
Chloe and substance abuse don’t calibrate in my mind. She portrayed herself as a clean-cut girl, an advocate for ginger shots and celery juice, how-tos on healing your gut’s microbiome. But social media is all about manufactured authenticity, a performative and controlled identity to appeal to the public.
I remember opening her fridge, seeing the bottles of alcohol. Could it be? Was she secretly an addict?
This realization kicks me in the gut. I thought she had a perfect life, but behind the screen, she and I were both fractured in different ways.
“I’m not sure,” I say. “She hides things really well. Did she… you know… overdose or something?”
“I can’t say for certain. It’s difficult to OD on TCAs.” He shakes the bottle of pills. “Unless she had a preexisting condition that would lead to a higher chance of seizures.”
“Seizures?” The word shocks me so much it feels like a corset has suddenly bound my ribs.
“Her airways contained froth. That’s uncommon for ODs on TCAs, unless she had a seizure.”
I cross my arms and hold on to my trembling elbows. I’m reminded of her call to me, the gurgles, the choking.
“Do you know if your sister had epilepsy or any heart issues?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
Chloe’s voice rips into my mind. Mistake. Did she accidentally take too many pills? Or had she intended to OD but was beginning to regret it? If so, why didn’t she call 911? She had said I’m sorry . I’m sure I heard that. What was she apologizing for?
The paramedic, the cop, and Ramos are staring at me. Someone must have asked me a question, but I didn’t hear it; I was tangled in thought.
I’m about to apologize when the paramedic says, “I see you’re a bit rattled. We’ll give you a second to breathe. Do you know where her ID is so we can make a report?”
“P-probably in the apartment.”
“There was a backpack on the counter. Are her belongings there?”
She’s talking about my backpack.
My identification.
The world is silent for a few beats, something stuck in my throat.
“Miss Van Huusen?” Ramos waves his hand in front of my eyes, his words ringing in my ears.
Miss Van Huusen.
A ridiculous idea slips into my mind.
So wrong yet so tempting, like stumbling across a bright red fire alarm, the insatiable urge to pull on the handle.
Everything slows as I glance into her apartment, the luxurious floors, pristine couches, expensive jewelry. Is it really fair for Chloe’s life to go to waste? To become another tomb when so many would kill for her position? If I left tonight as Julie, I would have nothing. A rotting house. A dead-end job at SuperFoods. A drained bank account. No future. No friends. No family except for an aunt and cousin who never cared for me anyway. I wouldn’t even have an asshole sister to be bitter about.
Chloe has everything. Had everything. Her life is all I’ve ever wanted and more. It’s too precious to toss away, to zap into obscurity. I could do so much if I were her. So much more than she ever did. I could take what she had and better the world, give her assets to charity, start fundraisers, donate all my sponsorships to those in need—and not for some silly video.
I deserve it, don’t I? Chloe had everything while I suffered with nothing. Isn’t this karmic justice unfolding before me? Reparations for my hardships in the shape of a new, glittery influencer life? It’s not like I asked for it. The world just placed the pieces in my palm, tempting me to puzzle them together. Who knows, this might be Chloe’s final apology, her last gift for her dear twin: her life.
She’d want this for me. For family. Surely.
Surely.
“Miss Van Huusen?” Ramos says again.
It’s his fault, really. It’s Ramos’s words that seal everything.
I can barely breathe as I answer, my heart blaring rapidly as I lie. “I-I think so, yeah. She always keeps her wallet in the front pocket.”
The officer doesn’t question it. She goes inside, returns with the wallet, and asks me to confirm if the ID is hers. “Julie Chan?”
I nod. Every crick in my neck bends and snaps.
She glances at the ID photo, then at me. Does she know I’m lying? I know that Chloe normally looks more put together, but compared to a corpse, I must look okay, right?
I bite my lip. It’s not too late. I can take everything back. I can say I was confused, that I’m Julie and she’s Chloe. I don’t have to go down this path. I can stop before it all gets out of hand.
“And you…” the cop begins.
I should just tell the truth. Right now. Before she catches me in a lie.
“You’re Chloe Van Huusen, right? Maybe I shouldn’t be saying this, but uh…” She chuckles awkwardly. “I’ve been watching you since college.”
I clench my teeth to stop my jaw from dropping. So that’s why she kept glancing at me. It wasn’t suspicion. She’s a fan .
Her eyes gleam as if face-to-face with her idol at a meet and greet, as if there isn’t a literal dead body on the other side of the wall. “I was curious why you kept your twin so private, but now I understand. If my sister was going through all of this, I wouldn’t want her in the spotlight either.”
“Oh…” is all I can mutter.
She closes her eyes and shakes her head. “Sorry. That was totally unprofessional. I don’t know what got into me. I’m just… so sorry for your loss.”
I don’t know how to process this. What the fuck is happening?
“I know you’re grieving, but I need to create a police report to make sure everything is in order. Can I ask you a few more questions?”
“S-sure.” My heart is beating up my throat. Part of me screams to tell the truth. But how can I inform this cop that her internet idol is the one dead on the floor? How can I confess that I lied without incriminating myself? What if she grabs those metal handcuffs secured on her belt, arrests me, and drags me to jail for identity fraud?
But the cop is clearly sympathetic to me—er, Chloe. She’s subconsciously primed to believe someone with my twin’s face. Maybe, just maybe, I can work this to my advantage. Prevent this from all blowing up.
“It seems like your sister has been here for a while,” she says. “Why didn’t you call earlier? Were you not at home?”
I swallow. What would Chloe say? What would Chloe have been doing? “I-I was taking a break.”
The cop nods. “Yes, I noticed.”
Sweat beads down my back. “And I was, um, using that time to get away from the city. To be away from… all the stress. So, my sister was house-sitting for me.” I can’t bring myself to say Julie out loud. It feels too wrong.
“Did you go to your family home in the Hamptons?”
Holy shit. This cop is a big-time fan. She must have watched all of Chloe’s summer vlogs. She’s crafting my cover story without knowing it. I can lean into what she already believes. This is beyond luck. This is a miracle.
I nod.
She jots in her notebook. “Do you have a record of your travel, just in case we need to look into it?”
“Um…” Shit. Think. Think. Think! “I took a cab. Paid in cash. I didn’t want my location to be accidentally leaked.”
She sighs. “I hear you. You’d be surprised how often we respond to fans showing up at celebrity homes, or streamers being swatted. There are so many parasocial freaks out there. I’m sorry you have to go through all that trouble. Can anyone confirm that you were in the Hamptons?”
“N-no. I went there to lie low. To be by myself.” The series of questions is making me nervous. The question bubbles up before I can stop it: “Am I under suspicion?”
“I’m only performing my due diligence. Most of these questions are routine.” She meets my gaze. “Unless there’s signs of foul play.”
My eyes widen. “Foul play? Didn’t she OD?”
“Since you weren’t aware of a history of addiction or drug issues, we might have to get an autopsy to confirm.”
Fuck. They can’t get an autopsy. What if they find out she’s actually Chloe? What happens to me then?
“I don’t want to concern you, I’m not saying there’s foul play,” she continues. “We just want to make sure—”
“I lied!”
“Sorry?”
“I—” My throat catches. I’m so overwhelmed that I hiccup a sob. “I lied. She did have a history of addiction.” What the hell am I saying? What am I doing? But I can’t stop. I’m desperate to cover my tracks. I don’t want to get in trouble. “I was used to protecting her and… I lied out of habit. I’m sorry.” Tears stream down my cheeks, dripping off my chin in globs. I don’t know if it’s from the grief of losing my twin, fear of being caught, or guilt from sprinting down this path of lies. Perhaps it’s everything. In this moment of panic, one lie has unlocked something inside me, released the floodgates. I’m caught in the currents, and I can’t swim out.
“She’s been having a lot of trouble recently. She was caught stealing at work and now she might get fired, she has no social support or family. And she once told me that back in high school, the police had to come to her house because she was suicidal.”
The cop notes every word caught between breathless sobs. A history of misbehavior. A profile of deviancy. And it’s all true. Maybe that’s why they come out so easily. So quick and without thought. Maybe I’ve been wanting to confess my burdens and was simply waiting for someone to ask. To listen.
“I could tell she was hopeless and lost and really, really depressed, as if she was just going through the motions. I thought if I gave her a place to stay, she’d get better. But I wasn’t thinking—I forgot about all my medication and now she’s dead!” I let out another cry. “I feel so guilty. What do I do? I fucked up! I fucked everything up!” I really am fucking up. How can I keep lying like this? What is wrong with me?
My throat is tight. Breath struggles to enter my lungs. My fingertips are prickling. I see stars in my eyes.
“It’s okay.” The cop pats my back. “Breathe. You don’t have to say any more. I understand.”
I focus in on her face. When I stare at her misty eyes, wet with sympathy, I know I’ve gotten away with it. She’s absorbed my words as truth, gobbled them up like grapes.
She believes me.
She believes that I’m Chloe.
The once cold and calming ring I’ve been squeezing in my fist is now hot from my sweaty palm. I slip it on my pointer finger. It slides into place without resistance, like it was meant for me all along.
“Do you have someone to stay with tonight to make sure you’re okay?”
“I have family here.” It comes out so naturally, I didn’t even have to think. It’s like Chloe’s soul climbed into me, pulled on the tendons in my jaws, and sent words up my throat.
The paramedics come out with Chloe on a stretcher, her body covered by a blanket, face obscured. They carry her away. She disappears behind the elevator door. Just like that, she’s gone.
The cop remains, letting me know in soft whispers that she just needs to copy the information off the ID. Date of birth, address, everything.
She’s writing the end of Julie Chan’s story.
And the start of mine.