Milan #2
I stared at her. Six years ago, those words could have saved her. Maybe even yesterday. But not now.
“You should’ve remembered that when I was all you had.”
China cried.
“I made a mistake.”
“You made a choice.”
“I can fix it.”
“How?”
“I will tell them everything.”
I laughed.
“I will.”
“Malcolm is dead.”
“I know.”
“Warren is dead.”
“I know.”
She swallowed.
“You can’t give me anything back.”
“I can clear your name.”
“My name?”
I stared at her. The thought from before came back. My face. Her face. My name. Her name. China had used all three as if they were hers.
I looked at my sister in a new way. She noticed.
“What?”
I said nothing.
“Milan?”
I looked her over, taking in the wedding dress and the diamond necklace. The photographer's words came back to me.
If you both had the same hair and clothes, I wouldn’t be able to tell you apart.
China took a step toward me.
“I'll confess.”
I smiled.
“No, you won’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t need you to anymore.”
Her face changed. I moved before she did. China ran for the door. I grabbed the back of her wedding dress and pulled. The fabric ripped. China screamed and fell. She kicked back, and her heel hit my shin.
I lost my balance. She scrambled across the floor and grabbed one of the broken champagne glasses. She swung it, and the jagged edge sliced my forearm.
I screamed. Blood immediately ran down my skin. China stared at what she had done. I looked at my arm, then at her.
“You should’ve ran.”
China swung again. I caught her wrist. The glass cut into my palm. I squeezed harder. China screamed. The broken stem fell. I punched her twice. Her head snapped back.
Blood sprayed from her mouth onto her wedding dress.
White turned to red. China grabbed my shoulders, and we crashed into the table. The flower arrangement fell over. Red roses scattered across the floor. A vase broke, and water spread beneath our feet.
China slipped, and I fell with her. The knife hit the floor. We both saw it. China moved first. I grabbed her ankle, but she screamed and kicked me in the face.
My lip split. She crawled toward the knife. I grabbed a handful of her dress, and the fabric tore again.
China reached out, her fingers brushing the handle. I pulled her back. She screamed my name as I climbed over her. China rolled away, her nails scraping across my cheek.
I slapped her, and she punched me back. We rolled through broken glass and roses. My maid-of-honor dress tore along the slit.
Blood stained the ivory satin. China's wedding dress was no longer white; red covered the bodice. Glass sparkled in the fabric, and rose petals clung to her hair. The whole room looked like the cover of a nightmare.
China grabbed my throat, and I grabbed hers. We stared at each other, two versions of the same woman, both trying to decide who deserved to survive.
China began to cry.
“I love you.”
I tightened my grip.
“You should’ve loved me when it mattered.”
She headbutted me, and pain shot across my face. I fell back as China crawled toward the door.
I grabbed the knife.
She reached for the handle, but I drove the blade into the back of her thigh. China screamed and collapsed. I pulled the knife free, and she rolled onto her back.
“Milan, please.”
I stood over her. Blood dripped from my arm, my lip, and my hand. My dress was torn and soaked with both of our blood.
China looked up at me from the floor, dressed in what was left of her wedding gown.
“Mama would hate you for this.”
I stared at her, then crouched down.
“Mama died thinking I was a murderer.”
China's face fell.
“You let her die believing that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She stopped visiting me after the first year.”
China shut her eyes.
“I know.”
“Did you tell her to?”
Her eyes opened, and that was all I needed. I felt the last gentle part of me fade away.
“You did.”
“Milan.”
“You told Mama not to visit me.”
“She was getting sick.”
China started to cry.
“She couldn’t handle seeing you there.”
“So you took that from me too.”
“I was trying to protect her.”
“From me?”
China stayed silent. I got up. She grabbed my ankle.
“Milan.”
I glanced down at her.
“Please.”
I remembered Warren saying the same thing. Malcolm did too. It was strange how everyone remembered that word when they were the ones hurt.
China tightened her fingers around my ankle.
“We can still fix this.”
“No we can't.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“You don’t want to kill me.”
I stared at her. She sounded so sure. Maybe she still thought some part of her sister was left in me.
The Milan who forgave Andre. The Milan who shared clothes.
The Milan who held her during storms. The Milan who would have picked China over anyone.
That person was real once. China destroyed her six years ago.
I knelt next to my sister. She reached out and touched my face. I let her.
Her fingers, sticky with blood, brushed my cheek.
“We’re twins,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“You can’t kill me.”
I met her eyes and smiled.
“You killed me first.”
I pushed the knife into her chest. China gasped. Her hand slipped away from my face. I pulled the knife out. Blood spread over the white lace.
China stared at me. I stabbed her again. She made a small sound. I hated that sound. I hated that some part of me recognized it as my sister. I pushed the feeling away.
China reached out. I took her hand. For a moment, our fingers laced together, just like when we were kids. Then I stabbed her again. Her body jerked. I held her hand as she died. I didn’t know why.
Maybe it was because she was my sister. Maybe it was because I hated her. Maybe both were true. China's breathing slowed.
Her eyes remained on mine. A tear slid from the corner of her eye. Then she stopped breathing. I stayed by her side.
The suite was quiet now. Broken glass covered the floor. Roses lay scattered around us. Blood soaked the front of China's wedding dress. My maid-of-honor dress was covered in blood too. I looked just like the woman everyone already thought I was: a murderer.
I let out a quiet laugh and let go of China's hand. Then I saw Mama's necklace. The diamond pendant lay against China's bloody chest. I reached for it, but my hand paused. I looked at her face. The thought that came to me was so awful that it made me smile.
China had taught me something important: people believe what they see. Half the wedding guests hadn’t seen me in six years. The police already thought Milan Hart was dangerous. China was the grieving bride. Milan was the convicted killer.
I looked down at my bloody maid-of-honor dress, then at China's ruined wedding gown.
For the first time since I came home, I knew exactly how this had to end.
I touched my sister’s cheek.
“Remember when you stole my face?”
China stared back at me with lifeless eyes.
I smiled.
“I think I want it back.”
I stood up and walked to the mirror.
Blood covered my cheek.
My hair had come loose. I came to this hotel planning to kill three people, and I did. Now I needed to kill one more.
Milan Hart.
I smiled at my reflection in the mirror and reached for Mama’s necklace. China had taken my freedom, and I could never get those years back. I finally understood that. But I could take the years she had left. I unclasped the necklace from her neck and put it on myself.
Then I looked into the mirror again.
China stared back at me. I grinned, thinking about what I was about to do next.
For the first time all day, my smile was real.
“Hello, sister.”