Milan #2
Dinner started with salad, followed by speeches and more champagne. Malcolm’s best man shared a story about meeting China at a charity event. Malcolm saw her across the room and said, That’s the woman I’m going to marry.
Everyone laughed, including me. China glanced at me, and I raised my glass.
She looked away before I did. Then China’s maid of honor stood up, the other one.
I was just the ceremonial maid of honor, something else China hadn’t mentioned.
Her name was Sierra. She was pretty, talkative, and apparently drunk, which was a risky mix.
She started telling stories about China and Malcolm’s relationship.
“And of course, we all know Malcolm has technically known China forever, but timing is everything, right?”
The laughter in the room faded. China froze next to me. Malcolm’s smile disappeared. Sierra kept talking.
“I mean, imagine knowing your soulmate all those years and not realizing.”
“Sierra.”
China’s voice was sharp. Sierra blinked.
“What?”
“Drink some water.”
A few people laughed, and then the moment was over.
I turned to China, but she wouldn’t look at me.
Malcolm stared straight ahead. Known China forever, played over in my head.
But Malcolm always said he could barely stand my sister when we were together.
He used to complain whenever she showed up without warning.
He called her spoiled, dramatic, even exhausting. Told me I needed to set boundaries.
Your sister thinks everything you have belongs to her.
His exact words.
I glanced at the diamond on China’s finger. Maybe Malcolm had been right.
When the main course arrived, no one at our table spoke for a while. After a few minutes, I leaned toward China.
“How long have you known Malcolm? Well, been dating Malcolm.”
She kept cutting her chicken.
“You know how long.”
“No, apparently I don’t.”
Her fork stopped.
“Milan.”
“I thought he met you when we started dating.”
“He did.”
“Then what did Sierra mean?”
“She’s drunk.”
“Drunk man tells no tales.”
Malcolm looked at me.
“Not here.”
I turned toward him.
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
China placed her fork down.
“Can we please not do this tonight?”
“Do what?”
Her voice dropped.
“You know exactly what.”
I stared at my sister. The fear evident on her face. My pulse quickened. I had expected lies. I had planned for lies. What I didn't expect was a lie I didn't already know about.
I smiled.
“You’re right.”
China blinked.
“I am?”
“Absolutely.”
I picked up my fork.
“It’s your night.”
Her shoulders relaxed. Malcolm’s didn’t.
Warren was still watching me from across the room. I took another bite of food. Suddenly, my phone vibrated in my clutch. I took it out under the table.
Unknown number.
ASK CHINA WHERE SHE WAS THE NIGHT BEFORE YOUR ARREST.
My hand froze. For the first time that night, it was hard to keep my face calm. I read the message again. The night before my arrest.
I remembered where China said she was. She claimed she was home with our mother.
She said this under oath. I remembered because the prosecutor asked her.
China’s testimony was used to show what I was thinking that night.
She told the jury I called her around eleven, upset and talking about Malcolm.
She said she heard alcohol in my voice and that I sounded unstable. But I never made that call.
But China said she was home when she got the call. I slowly looked up. My sister was laughing at something Aunt Renee said. I glanced at Malcolm. He was staring at his plate.
Then I looked at Warren. He was no longer watching me. Now he was watching China. Something changed inside me. All this time, I thought I knew what happened. Maybe not every detail, but enough.
Malcolm and China had lied. Warren ignored what didn’t fit. Together, they sent me away. That was the story I carried for years. It kept me alive. It was the story I came home to finish. But whoever was texting me knew something. I slipped the phone back into my clutch.
China touched my hand.
“You okay?”
I turned toward her. Her face was inches from mine.
I smiled.
“Yes.”
She smiled back. Then I looked down at our hands.
We had identical fingers. We both had the same small scar near the thumb from when we fought over a broken picture frame as kids. Most people struggled to tell us apart. Even our father sometimes got it wrong.
I looked at China’s hand, then at mine. A thought crept into my mind so quietly I almost missed it. I turned to Malcolm again. He was talking to his father now.
But I remembered the first piece of evidence they said linked me to the crime.
It was a security camera. The footage was grainy.
It showed a woman leaving a parking garage.
She had my height, build, and hair, but her face was never visible.
They said it was me. China said it couldn’t have been her because she was home.
I looked at my sister. For years, I kept wondering how they managed to frame me so perfectly. Maybe I was asking the wrong question all along.
Maybe they never needed someone who looked like me. Maybe they already had one. My phone vibrated again. I didn’t want to look, but I did anyway.
SHE DIDN’T JUST TAKE YOUR MAN.
A second message appeared.
SHE TOOK YOUR FACE.