Chapter 2Free Shopping

The last image from my past life was the blinding white light of the execution chamber. And now, my story had to begin in that nightmare.

I was a crime novelist, writing under the pen name Jane Night. I was moderately well-known in the community but had never had a breakout hit.

In my previous life, today was the day I was arrested.

I was rushing to meet a publisher's deadline, writing the most crucial chapter of my new book, The Perfect Double. The protagonist had just discovered his identical twin brother had stolen his identity to commit a murder.

I had just typed the line, "He stared at the security footage, at the face that was a mirror image of his own, and suddenly realized the only person in the world who could perfectly replicate him was his own flesh and blood," when my keyboard jammed.

Looking back, it was a cruel joke played by fate itself.

When the police smashed through my door, I was on the floor with a screwdriver, trying to fix the keyboard. The explosive crash of the door made me slip, and the screwdriver sliced open my index finger. Blood dripped into the crevices of the keyboard, which later became evidence in court of my "violent tendencies."

"Anna Jane, you're under arrest for the murder of Marcus Thorne and the theft of a large sum of cash."

I collapsed on the floor as they pulled a blood-stained shirt from the back of my closet. It had my fingerprints on it, and traces of Marcus Thorne's.

"That's impossible..." My voice trembled. "I haven't left my apartment in three days. That's not mine..."

But the security footage shattered every one of my denials.

On the screen, "I" was wearing the black baseball cap I always wore and carrying my one-of-a-kind backpack, a gift from fans at a book signing, covered in their signatures. "I" showed up on camera at Marcus Thorne's penthouse apartment.

The footage clearly showed me plunging a knife into his chest, then taking a stack of documents from a safe in the bedroom. The most ironic part was the look on Marcus's face before he died—not fear, but pure shock. He must have recognized that face, too.

"So you're telling us you have an identical twin sister, and she was Marcus Thorne's mistress?" In the interrogation room, the lead detective tapped his pen against the case file.

"Yes. Check his phone. I guarantee you'll find tons of messages and pictures of my sister."

The detectives interviewing me huddled together and left the room. When they returned, they showed me a photo.

It was a picture my parents had provided, showing my sister, Nina, smiling at an airport gate. The electronic departures board behind her clearly displayed the date and time: 12:15 PM on the day of the murder.

The murder took place at 3:50 PM. At that time, her plane hadn't even landed.

My editor, Lucy, once told me that the alibis in my novels were too perfect, that reality was never that convenient. Now I knew she was right. It wasn't a coincidence. My gut screamed that the photo was a fake.

But no one believed me. My parents' testimony in court was the final, fatal blow.

My mother cried until she nearly fainted, but she insisted they had personally driven Nina to the airport that morning. My father produced ticket stubs and parking receipts as proof.

"Anna was never as smart as her sister," he said, his voice choked with false grief. "She was always secretly jealous. When they were little, she used to cut up Nina's dolls with scissors. But I never, ever thought she would be jealous of her sister's boyfriend, too. It's our fault. We failed as parents."

They sobbed hysterically on the stand, and everyone in the courtroom was convinced I had been a monster since childhood.

And me? A reclusive writer who spent all her time locked in her apartment. I barely even appeared on my own building's security cameras. No one could prove I was at home when the murder happened.

"The defendant is a long-term recluse with severe social anxiety..." The prosecutor's words flayed my ears. "Her novels repeatedly depict meticulously planned perfect crimes, proving she has the capacity for premeditation..."

It wasn't until the death sentence was handed down that I finally understood how all the pieces fit together. But it was too late.

I had become my sister's perfect scapegoat.

Three hours before my lethal injection, Nina came to visit. Through the bulletproof glass, her lips, painted a slash of crimson, moved. "By the way," she mouthed, "I helped you finish your new book. The protagonist confesses in the end. A beautiful story of repentance, don't you think?"

She didn't even stay to claim my body. She was finally free to run off with the pretty college boy she'd been keeping on the side.