On Tuesday after school, Sarah greets me with a smile even bigger than her usual cheerful one.
“Ooh, Jem! A letter’s come from your sister! Your mom hasn’t opened it. She’s waiting for you. But I hope she’ll show me later! I’m dying to know what your sister said.”
Sarah wheels me into the kitchen, announcing, “Jemma’s home!” to Mom. She doesn’t leave. I think she’s hoping Mom will let her stay.
“Thanks, Sarah,” says Mom.
Sarah shoots me a pretend annoyed look and goes, closing the door behind her. We sit at the kitchen table, and Mom carefully opens the white envelope.
My heart thuds.
“Are you ready for this?” Mom asks. She puts the letter down so I can see it.
“Dear Jemma,” she reads.
I didn’t know you existed until a few months ago. I found some papers in a drawer that were about me. One of them had your name on it under mine. My name is Jodi, and I am your sister!
Mom pauses and looks up at me before continuing.
In fact, more than that, Jemma. We are twins!
Twins? Mom never told me that.
We must have been born only minutes apart. The thing is, I’ve always had this weird feeling—like something was missing. When I found out about you I thought, This is it! This explains it. I have a twin sister. We spent nine months together before we were born, and we’ve been separated ever since.
Missing? I’ve never felt that. But maybe that’s because so much else is missing for me—like legs and arms that work and a voice.
Mom is still reading.
Now I’m going to tell you some stuff about me. I live in Enfield—only a few miles from you! I live with my mom and dad (the ones who adopted me), but I don’t have any brothers or sisters. I’ve ALWAYS wanted a sister.
Favorite things. Color—purple. Food—ice-cream sundae. Sport—field hockey (I play for the school team). Pet—cat (Mine’s called Fluff. She really is like a fluffy white bundle, and I love her to pieces! She disappeared last year and was found up in a tree after three days!). People—my best friend, Ava, my boyfriend, Jack, and my parents too. They are terrific, and even though I was angry that they didn’t tell me about you and they were upset that I found out, they’ve calmed down now and say they’re sorry that they didn’t tell me before.
There’s so much more I could write, but I’ll stop now because I’ve got tons of homework.
I know you have disabilities and that you can’t write back. I’ve been told about that. It’s no big deal. Don’t worry, I’ll keep writing!
I’ve put in a photo of me, though our printer at home is worthless and it came out a little dark. I’ll try to find a better photo—and maybe next time I’ll send you a picture of Fluff too!
I will write again soon.
Love, Jodi
Mom holds the photo so I can see it. It’s kind of blurry, but Jodi has dark hair like mine, and her eyes are a little like mine too. She looks pretty.
“I’ll reply for you, Jemma,” says Mom. “And I’ll encourage Jodi to keep writing. We’ll take things slowly, and hopefully one day you’ll be able to meet her.”
I’m only half listening. I can’t take my eyes off the photo. That’s my sister—my twin sister!
Mom puts the photo by my bed, and looking at it and thinking about the letter keeps me happy for the next couple of days. I am sleeping better too. It is almost enough to keep me from thinking about Dan. But when Thursday evening comes, I am desperate for Dad to let me stay in the living room to watch Crime Watch.
Sarah’s upstairs putting Finn and Olivia to bed, and Mom’s getting her coat on to go to Weight Watchers. She’s been trying to eat healthily, but I know her secret—I see her hide chocolate bars between the books on the highest shelf in the living room.
I’m hoping my limbs stay still and no sounds escape my mouth so she’ll forget I’m here. Dad is more likely to let me watch Crime Watch than Mom. But she comes to say goodbye to me and then turns to Dad.
“I’m not sure Jemma should see it,” she says. “It might upset her.”
“She’s sixteen,” says Dad. “I bet she’d be interested to see it, wouldn’t you, Jemma?” He turns to me and back to Mom. “It’s not as if she hasn’t heard us all talk about it.”
I wish I could hug Dad.
Mom still looks uncertain. She glances from Dad to me and back again.
Please!
“All right,” says Mom. “Hopefully I’ll be back in time, but if not, you’ll have to fill me in.”
* * *
When the show starts, I’m disappointed that Sarah isn’t here—but Dad calls her, and she brings a basket of laundry to fold and sits on the armchair.
Mom gets back just as they start showing Ryan’s case and hurries in, still in her coat.
“Put on two pounds.” She sighs, and I hear the sofa creak as she sits down next to Dad.
“Four weeks ago,” the reporter says, “nineteen-year-old Ryan Blake was brutally stabbed to death in Walden Cross. The assailant and motive remain a mystery. Witnesses have helped to make the reenactment that you are about to see.”
They show actors, including one I can clearly see is meant to be Ryan, drinking in a local bar, the Hare and Hound. Then Ryan and his friends leave and gradually split up until Ryan is left with one friend, who finally heads for home. Instead of going home himself, Ryan doubles back. No one knows why he did this. He heads down a side street—though they’re not sure which one—and comes out somewhere behind the train station.
That was where his body was found.
“Did you see Ryan on Warduff Street or Mackenzie Avenue between 11:00 p.m. and midnight?” the reporter asks. “A man in a black jacket was seen walking along Mackenzie Avenue just before 11:00. This man has not yet been identified. Are you that man, or did you also see him that night?”
I try to think like Hercule Poirot. I’ve listened to dozens of Agatha Christie audiobooks that Mom’s aunt gave me. I need to be observant—to have an eye for anything that might be a clue, even if it seems unlikely. Everyone is a suspect in Agatha Christie. Ryan’s friends seem like a shady bunch. Maybe the last friend he was with didn’t go home. Maybe he doubled back too. Perhaps Ryan had lied to him—or one of the others—or ripped them off. But there isn’t much to go on to figure out a motive. What about the man in the black jacket? Dan has a black jacket, but it’s a little different from the one they showed.
Suddenly I remember Graham—Ryan’s dad—sitting in our kitchen. His jacket looked like the one on the program. Graham? Is it possible? Could he have gotten so fed up with Ryan that he lost his temper and killed him? One of the crime books I listened to said most people are killed by members of their families. And in Agatha Christie it’s often the quiet ones you have to watch. But Graham? Murder his own son? It’s easier to believe that Dan did it. I’ve seen what he can be like—even though no one else has.
I want to see Sarah’s reaction, but I’m facing the TV. I wish she’d say something.
“Police say the alley behind the station is known to be used by drug dealers,” the reporter continues, “but no drugs were found in Ryan’s blood.” They mention that the knife used hasn’t been found, and they give the number for people to call.
“Okay, Jemma,” says Mom. For a moment I imagine her dialing the number and handing me the phone so I can tell them what Dan said. But of course, she’s just telling me that it’s time for me to go to bed.
Sarah wheels me out as Crime Watch moves on to a series of armed robberies in Dartford.