10. Chapter Ten
Chapter Ten
Donna
The police tape across Genevieve Sorel’s apartment door is still intact when I arrive.
I stand at the end of the hallway for a moment and look at it.
The building is quiet at this hour. A television murmurs in one apartment. Somewhere farther down, water runs through old pipes. The elevator closed behind me less than a minute ago, but no one has come out to see who stepped off.
I walk toward Genevieve’s apartment without hurrying.
The lock has already been opened by police, probably more than once. The frame shows no damage, which means they had a key or someone let them inside. The narrow strip of tape is fixed between the door and the wall, positioned to make any entry obvious.
It would stop a neighbor.
It would not stop me.
I take a pair of gloves from my jacket pocket and put them on before crouching near the bottom hinge. The tape matters less than the adhesive holding it in place. I work carefully, lifting one edge without stretching or tearing it.
This is easier than the Halston.
No electronic lock. No cameras in the hallway that I could see when I came up. No hotel employees trained to notice a woman who does not belong.
Just a locked apartment and a taped warning that I am not supposed to enter.
I ease the tape free from the door, leaving the end attached to the wall.
The lock takes less than a minute.
I slip inside and close the door behind me.
The apartment is dark, but city light comes through the windows. I wait until my eyes adjust before turning on a small lamp far enough away from the windows that anyone looking up wouldn't see it.
The room looks exactly like Genevieve’s public life.
Ordinary. Curated.
The furniture fits the space. Nothing is oversized or placed where it blocks the room. Framed photographs sit on a shelf beside a few books and small objects chosen either for sentiment or because someone needed to fill an empty surface.
No clutter. No dishes left in the sink. No shoes abandoned near the door.
Even after the police search, the apartment is still neat.
I remain near the entrance and take it in before moving.
The police have been through here. Drawers sit slightly uneven. One cabinet door is not closed all the way. A stack of papers on a side table is not aligned with the edge, which seems like it would be a Genevieve thing to do.
That could all be from the search.
I need to separate what they disturbed from what mattered before they arrived.
The cops don't know what they're looking for. I don't either, I suppose, but I know more than they do.
I take out my phone and photograph the room from the doorway.
Then I begin my search.
Genevieve’s apartment tells me the same story of her life that I found online. The woman in the photographs lived here. The same clothes likely appear in the closet. The same pieces of furniture show up in the backgrounds of posts. The framed pictures match people whose names I already know.
The front room is where police likely spent the least amount of time. There is no obvious place to hide anything important, and nothing suggests a struggle occurred here.
I check anyway.
Behind frames. Under furniture. Inside books that open naturally to their spines. Beneath the bottom drawer of the small cabinet near the wall.
Nothing.
I move into the kitchen.
The refrigerator contains food that has begun to spoil. Containers from recent meals. Produce. A bottle of wine with less than half remaining.
No bad habits that I can see. No unusual amount of food. No repeated purchases suggesting another person stayed here regularly.
The counters are bare except for the appliances that live there.
I open drawers and cabinets without shifting more than necessary. The contents are organized but not obsessively so. Utensils have migrated into the wrong sections. One cabinet holds mismatched glasses. A chipped plate sits beneath newer ones.
Oddly, it makes me feel better after what I saw in Genevieve's public profiles.
Her life looked almost too orderly from the outside, but this is lived in. Small inconsistencies, ordinary neglect. Proof that the polished images did not extend to every aspect of her life.
I close the cabinet and move toward the bedroom.
The door is open. Police searched this room thoroughly. Several drawers remain pulled out an inch or two. Clothing inside has been disturbed. The bedding is rumpled in a way that does not look like it would if she rolled out of bed and didn't make it.
I stop just inside.
This is where Rachel found the dress.
It had belonged to Genevieve. Rachel wore it to the club, then into the Halston with Alessio.
That means someone came here before the murder.
Probably Rachel.
I wonder briefly what kind of woman discovers she has a twin and, instead of introducing herself, forming a literal kinship, does what Rachel did. Set her up to be murdered and frame someone else for it.
I think back to when I interviewed Alessio’s cousins, Matteo and Tomasso. Obviously, their situation is different. They grew up together. But wouldn't that bond be instinctual?
Rachel looked into the face of her twin, nearly the same face she saw in the mirror, and instead of seeing the possibility of a relationship, she saw opportunity.
That’s a cold kind of person.
I step farther into the bedroom.
Rachel did not choose the dress by accident. No, she needed something Genevieve owned and had likely been photographed in. Something distinctive enough to get a man like Alessio’s attention.
A red dress does that.
I walk to the closet.
Genevieve’s clothes are arranged by type more than color. Dresses together. Jackets. Blouses. Trousers. Shoes lined beneath them, some still in boxes. Two empty garment bags hang at the end of the rod.
There is no obvious empty hanger waiting to tell me exactly where the red dress had been.
That would be convenient.
Life rarely is.
More than that, Genevieve likely would have noticed.
I run my eyes across the clothes without touching them.
The dress may have been removed days earlier. Weeks earlier. Rachel could have come here with Genevieve’s permission if the two women knew each other, though the adoption records and complete absence from Genevieve’s life make that less likely.
Or Rachel entered without her knowledge.
That is the possibility I am leaning toward.
I crouch near the closet floor.
Dust gathers where shoes have not moved recently. There are gaps, but most correspond to pairs sitting elsewhere in the room. Nothing indicates a large disturbance.
I straighten and study the hangers.
I slide one gloved finger along the rod without moving the clothes more than necessary.
What else might Rachel have taken?
Anything visible in hotel footage had to belong to Genevieve.
I step back and pull up the elevator still on my phone.
Rachel’s shoes are mostly obscured by the angle. Her bag appears briefly in the lobby footage, but not clearly enough to identify. Her earrings catch the light in one frame.
I enlarge the image.
Then I look toward the dresser.
The top holds a small tray with jewelry arranged in shallow sections. Some pieces are tangled. One earring lies without its match.
I photograph the tray.
The police may have cataloged it. They may have ignored it because jewelry had nothing to do with Alessio.
They were looking for evidence that connected him to Genevieve.
I am looking for evidence that connects Rachel to her.
I study the still again, specifically the earrings.
I open the top drawer.
More jewelry. Receipts. Boxes. A few items still in their original packaging.
Nothing tells me what is missing.
Absence is difficult evidence.
I close it and continue through the room.
The police took Genevieve’s computer. The space where it sat is obvious on the desk. A charging cable remains. Papers have been moved and returned without care.
Her phone would have been collected from the hotel room.
I briefly wonder if I have a connection that can get me a look at her phone. I'll have to look into that.
Regardless, for now, that leaves me with whatever she kept off both devices.
I examine the papers.
Bills, work documents, notes, receipts. Nothing that appears connected to adoption, twins, Rachel, or the Halston.
Why would there be? That would be far too easy.
I move to the nightstand.
The first drawer contains ordinary personal items. The second holds a notebook.
I open it.
The pages are mostly blank. The few used ones contain lists. Errands, appointments.
I guess it was too much to expect a diary.
I turn through each page anyway, then replace it exactly as I found it.
The bathroom gives me even less.
Cosmetics and skin care. Medication with her name on it. Towels folded unevenly. One drawer left open.
I return to the bedroom and stand near the center.
If Rachel came here, how did she enter?
The front door shows no obvious damage. The building appears secure enough to discourage casual access, but not enough to stop someone determined. Rachel could have followed another resident inside, claimed she lost her key, or waited until Genevieve opened the door herself.
She may have had a key.
That possibility keeps pulling at me.
A twin given up at birth has no automatic access to an apartment. She has no reason to know where Genevieve lives unless someone found her first or she went looking.
How would she have found out? Curiosity about our own life. Did she see Genevieve across the street one day?
That would be too much of a coincidence.
I move toward the windows and check the latches. They are closed. The apartment is too high for ordinary entry from outside.
There is a fire escape, but the ladder is pulled up and secured.
The front door is the only reasonable way in.
I walk back into the living room and look at the framed photographs again.
Genevieve with friends. Genevieve at work. Genevieve at a wedding.
I pick up one frame and look behind it.
Nothing.
The next one is the same.
On the third, I pause.
The photograph sits slightly crooked beneath the glass.
That may be from the police search.