“What exactly does that mean, ‘in too deep’?” Sophia asked, and Julia didn’t like the glint in her eye or the way she hoisted her chin upward, almost as if she were superior to her twin.
Yeah, right. Sophia could only hope.
“Tell me you didn’t have anything to do with those people dying,” Sophia demanded.
“People?”
“Like, you know, that reporter in San Francisco?”
Oh, God, she was blowing this, ruining everything they’d worked for! Julia put on her most innocent face and dropped her bag and yoga mat by the door—the bag and mat Sophia had picked out when they’d worked out how they could pretend to be one person, to ensure that James would notice them, to provide alibis for each other. “You can’t be serious, Sophia. I was right here. You know that.” They’d been together; Sophia couldn’t argue the fact.
But there were others . . . Julia began to worry. What if Sophia started putting two and two together and figured out that Julia really was a part of Charity Spritz’s murder and Willow Valente’s murder and Phoebe Matrix’s near murder? That one still bothered her, but she had to keep her cool, not let on. Not yet. Sophia was already about to blow it. This was no time for her sister to go rogue.
“Then what about Willow?” Sophia charged. “You never liked her.”
“You never liked her,” Julia reminded her twin. “You thought she might be a problem.”
Sophia rolled her eyes—big and blue, so like Julia’s. “James would never go for someone like her,” Sophia said. “She was just too weird.” Sophia walked into the kitchen. Julia followed and saw there was half of a beef taco, cheese congealing on a plate near a takeout bag. No wonder the place smelled gross. Following her sister, Julia wadded the thin paper around the remaining taco shell and meat—geez, Sophia could be such a slob sometimes—and tossed it into the trash while Sophia ran the tap and filled a glass of water.
“Well, if you’re asking. I didn’t kill her, okay?” She leaned a hip against the counter. “Do I look like a murderer?”
“Do I?” Sophia turned her head to peer over her shoulder. “What you look like is me.”
“Funny, I thought you looked like me.”
“Not so funny, not really.” She drank half the glass of water down.
“But it’s perfect.”
“Is it?”
“Oh, come on, Sophia. Do you think I really killed Willow? I can’t believe it!” Julia said. “Geez, get a clue.”
“She was shot with James’s gun. You were in his house. You could have stolen it.”
“You were in his house too. You could have stolen it.”
“You weren’t here the night Willow was killed,” Sophia accused.
Julia shook her head and opened the refrigerator, pulled out a can of Diet Coke. “Yes, I was.”
“Not all of the night. I heard you go out.”
That was the problem with this damned apartment. Too small. And though Julia slept in the loft, while Sophia had the bedroom, it was tricky coming and going without being seen or heard. When Sophia was at work—no problem, Julia would don her disguise and do whatever she wanted, as long as she had the car. That, of course, was an issue in this Podunk town with zero cabs and no Uber or Lyft drivers who wouldn’t recognize you.
Julia probably should have rented a house, as there were too many prying eyes in this building. Though it didn’t have cameras, there was always the nosy landlady to deal with. Or there had been. Julia had managed to take care of Phoebe. Julia was a master at opening locks, and finding the EpiPens hadn’t been hard; the old lady was always talking about herself.
Too bad she hadn’t died.
Yet.
But Julia would take care of her. The switched-out candy had been brilliant, or so she’d thought. And come on, why was the old lady eating candy at all—what with her constant complaints about diabetes? Julia concentrated. Maybe she should put the peanut powder in the old woman’s Metamucil . . . or come up with some other kind of accident. Slipping on the ice would be good. Maybe if Julia let that stupid little Larry dog out, and he ran into the street, and Phoebe, running after him, slipped and fell on the ice and hit her head . . . at night. That would be best. She’d have to work on that, but Phoebe, the old snoop, had to go!
Julia cracked open the soda. “I bought groceries after the shift I worked.”
“I know what time you got off,” Sophia reminded her. “It was my shift.”
“So I got groceries and had a couple of drinks, down at the Brass Bullet.” She went back to the living room and carefully peered through the blinds to spy on Dabrowski shoveling snow, Larry—that stupid little yappy dog he’d inherited from Phoebe Matrix—sniffing the bushes lining the parking lot.
“Ask Bruce, if you don’t believe me,” she said, snapping the blinds shut, then returning to the kitchen. “He was there—at the Bullet.”
Sophia looked as if she were about to say something, but didn’t.
“So what? Now I can’t even have a drink?” Julia demanded and, to make a point, took a swallow from her can.
“You just need to be careful. And I think this is wrong. I mean, what we’re doing. The whole scam. It’s just not right.”
“When did you come up with a change of heart? Is this because you and James had a fight?” Sophia had confided that she was giving James a little space, that they’d had a disagreement, so Julia assumed all of her
