Page 82 of Mirror Image

“Who’s the good boy?” I cooed. “Were you a good boy today while Daddy was at work? Good boys get cook-keys!” I drawled, breaking up the word cookies into two as I made a show of reaching into the jar that housed his treats.

That was when I heard voices coming from the bedroom, where Walter often napped during the day—and often rolled onto the TV remote if it happened to be on the bed.

I put my hands on my hips and looked down at him. “Were you watching Jeopardy! again?”

His nails clicked on the hardwood floors as he followed me out of the kitchen, through the living room, and down the hall to the bedroom, where I pushed open the unlatched door.

I stopped dead in my tracks.

For a moment, I genuinely thought I was looking at a reflection—some trick of angles or mirrors or fluorescent glare.

Brad was sitting on the edge of the bed.

A woman was standing between his knees.

Her hands were in his hair.

His were on her hips.

Her face was tilted toward his.

Her mouth was pressed to his.

And she could’ve been my twin.

Because she was my twin.

Sam jerked back when she heard the sound I made—some awful little animal noise in the back of my throat. Brad blinked up, dazed, lips still parted from the kiss he hadn’t stopped.

Then the recognition hit him, hard and ugly.

“Mary?” he choked out, scrambling to stand. “Mary—wait—I didn’t—she—”

Sam swiped her thumb over the corner of her mouth, like brushing away proof.

“Relax,” she muttered. “It was just a kiss. I was proving a point.”

Brad rounded on her. “A point? Sam, what the hell—she’s your—”

“My sister,” Sam cut in sharply, not at all ashamed. “Exactly. Which is why it took you way too long to figure out who you were kissing.”

He paled, looking between the two of us. “I thought it was you—she said she was you!”

“Really?” I asked. “What about that text?”

He looked perplexed. “Text? What text?”

I saw then how it must have happened. My twin knew exactly when I’d be home from yoga. She was probably tracking my phone, waiting for the right moment to text me. Or, rather, to pretend to be Brad texting me.

“What’d you do—wait till he went to the bathroom and take his phone?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Whenever he comes to our place from work, he heads straight to the kitchen for a beer. He didn’t disappoint.”

“And the code to his phone?”

Sam scoffed. “Please. Pathetically easy. Your birthday. Our birthday, actually,” she corrected.

Brad stared at her, horrified. “Christ, Sam, you’re out of your mind.”