CHAPTER ONE

GEORGIA

You awaken slowly, struggling to surface, like you’re swimming up through mud. Your arms and legs ache, and grit burns your eyes. A headache throbs rhythmically at the base of your skull.

Your mouth feels sticky, as if your lips have been sealed together.

Your eyes flutter open, and as they take focus, you see you’re in a dimly lit room. It’s tiny; the drab beige walls seem to press in on you. The drop ceiling is beige, too. There’s nothing on the walls. Nothing to orient you. Nothing familiar at all.

The sharp, tangy aroma of bleach fills your nose, but it can’t mask the odor beneath it. If despair had a smell, it would smell like this room.

You have a good nose, a sommelier told you only a few nights ago—back when your life was your own—after he decanted a hundred-dollar bottle of wine and you identified notes of leather and blackberry.

You feel too weak to stand up, but something deep within you is screaming at you to try. Then you realize your arms are cuffed to the sides of the bed. So are your legs. You’re splayed out, completely helpless beneath bright green paper pajamas.

You strain as hard as you can, but the Velcro cuffs—red bands for your wrists and blue for your ankles—don’t yield.

“Help,” you croak in a voice that sounds nothing like your own. You try to swallow but your mouth is too dry.

Then you hear something that makes you wish you’d stayed silent. A man’s voice: “You’re awake.”

Your heart shudders as you glimpse him seated on a plastic chair down by your feet. He wears burgundy scrubs and a somber expression.

When you see his face, it all comes rushing back to you, a tsunami of memories, sending terror spiking through your veins. You remember why you are here.

And you know no matter what you say or do, you will not be allowed to leave.

You are no longer Georgia Cartwright, a thirty-two-year-old woman with a job as a high-end wedding planner, a city apartment with a wall of windows, a weakness for ugly dogs, and a love of running.

From this day forward, you are the newest resident of the locked ward.

CHAPTER TWO

MANDY

It’s the Crime of the Decade!

The early-morning headline explodes across my iPhone as I scan it through bleary eyes.

I read the first few paragraphs: A woman from a wealthy, socially prominent family is accused of bludgeoning her younger sister to death at the family estate in Charlotte, North Carolina—just ninety minutes away from my one-bedroom apartment, but essentially in another world. Pathological jealousy is the presumed motive.

Then I scroll through more updates involving war, famine, and the breakup of my favorite celebrity couple. I recently made a resolution to avoid checking social media first thing in the morning because it supposedly causes depression. I’m not sure the news is any better.

I stretch my arms above my head, then reluctantly pull myself out of bed. One of my employees took last night off, so work was especially hectic. At least I was filling in for my bartender Scott instead of the short-order cook. I’d rather pull beers and mix Jack and Cokes than stand over a deep fryer any day of the week.

I step into my bathroom and twist the knob for hot water in my shower, then hesitate. I thought I heard a faint noise in the distance just before it was muffled by the sound of rushing water.

I listen hard and hear it again: the bright music of my phone’s ringtone.

Everyone in my life knows I work nights and not to call before 10 A.M.—which it isn’t even close to now. It could be spam. But something is urging me to turn off the shower and walk back into my bedroom.

My phone is on my nightstand, flashing the words Private Caller.

Probably a salesperson, I tell myself. But some deep-seated instinct overrides my logical brain, pressing me to answer.

“Amanda Ravenel?” The man’s voice is raspy and urgent.

“Who’s asking?” I counter.

“My name is Milt Daniels. I’m the public defender representing Georgia Cartwright.”

My mind reels. It’s the case I just read about, the one with the insanely jealous sister.

“Ms. Ravenel?” the man repeats.

My throat is bone-dry. If it weren’t for the hard, smooth feeling of my phone in my hand, I’d assume I was dreaming. “I’m still here.”

“Would you be willing to come see my client?”

I sink onto the edge of my bed, a feeling of surreality flooding me. Nothing about this call makes sense. I’d never heard of Georgia Cartwright until a few minutes ago. Why does her lawyer want us to meet? And how in the world does he even know I exist?

“Why?” I ask.

When he speaks again, his voice is gentler: “This may come as a surprise. Or maybe you’ve known for a while. Georgia is your sister.”

I bark out a laugh. His words are nonsensical; clearly he’s been given wrong information. “I’m an only child,” I correct him.

“And you’re adopted,” he replies.

I rear back, blood rushing between my ears. That’s not something I hide, but neither is it something I advertise. It’s simply part of who I am, like my gray eyes and dark brown hair.

“Let me call you back. What’s your number?”

I scrabble for a pen and scrawl down his number, then hang up and enter his name into a search engine.

He appears to be exactly who he claims. I watch a snippet of an old video in which he answers a question from a reporter, and his voice matches the one that was just in my ear.

My mind swims as I consider the information I have: He’s a lawyer, one who relies on facts and data. And he’s clearly checked me out if he knows I’m adopted. He must have a good reason to think his client and I are sisters.

But there’s something more tugging at me, something that goes deeper than logic and reasoning. A piece of me has always felt missing, like a phantom limb. I’ve carried around a hollow emptiness for as long as I can remember. I’ve never been able to figure out why; I had loving parents and a good childhood—happier than most—and I’ve never had my heart shattered by a man.

The lawyer could be wrong.

But what if he’s found the missing piece in my life?

When I call him back, he answers on the first ring.

“Why do you need me there?” I ask.

“Georgia wants to see you. You’re the only person she has asked for.”

If I go, I’ll have to lean on my staff to run my bar, Sweetbay’s. But they’re competent, and it shouldn’t be a busy night.

“There’s one other thing.” I clear my throat. “The news reported that Georgia is thirty-two. So am I.”

“That’s correct,” Milt tells me. “She’s not only your sister. She’s your twin.”

CHAPTER THREE

GEORGIA

“Breakfast is at 7:30,” the man in burgundy scrubs tells you as he removes your thick Velcro cuffs.

He provides other information as you slowly sit up, wincing as your back threatens to spasm: “Lunch is at noon, dinner at 5:30. You can eat in your room, but it would be better if you came out and joined the others. Group activity is from 10 to 11 A.M. Today it’s gentle yoga. You have phone privileges, though those can be taken away at any time.”

It doesn’t matter. There isn’t anyone you want to call.

Your bed is a thin mattress atop a one-piece, bright blue plastic base that’s bolted to the floor. It’s the only item in the room now that the man has removed his chair.

“Would you like to use the bathroom?” he asks.

You give a slight nod, then slide off the bed, your feet landing on the floor. Someone put socks on you last night, the nonslip kind with rubber dots on the soles.

The aide presses his back against a wall, staying a full arm’s length away from you. His eyes never leave you. He gestures for you to walk through the open door first.

You hear the scream just as you cross the threshold: “She stole my glasses!”

A woman about your age, wearing a light purple sweatsuit, is standing in the hallway, pointing at you, her voice outraged but her face slack and devoid of emotion.

You shrink back.

“Give me my glasses!”

The woman shuffles a few feet down the hallway, looking back at you the whole time. You feel the skin-pricking sense of other eyes on you. Other watchers. A tall, heavyset man with rumpled dark hair, in a green paper top and pants that match yours, stands in a nearby doorway, gaping at you. Others appear, creeping forward in nonslip socks, appearing from doorways and around corners. Like museumgoers gathered around a new exhibit. Like predators encircling prey.

“They smell fresh blood,” you overhear a nurse say, a chuckle in his voice.

You are no longer a woman who loves sushi and hates Zoom meetings, who carries a bag with a sewing kit, stain remover, mints, and spare gold bands to every wedding she oversees.

You are fresh blood.

The aide points to a door. “Bathroom’s here.”

You step in, and he closes the door, sealing you inside. You begin to tremble, as if your body is trying to shake loose the stares that still cling to you, the hungry gazes you feel through the door. You reach for the lock. There isn’t one. There isn’t even a handle on the inside.

The only items in the room are a low metal toilet with no lid, a quarter roll of toilet paper resting in an indentation curved into the wall, a small bolted-in soap dispenser, and a plastic sink with two buttons instead of taps.

Bile burns your throat, and you lean over and dry heave into the toilet.

“Everything okay?” the aide asks as he peers in the door. There are eyes and ears on you everywhere. Even when you’re crouched over the toilet. Even when you’re sleeping.

“You need something in your stomach,” the aide tells you. “Come on.”

You rise on trembling legs and step out of the bathroom.

There’s a long, low-to-the-ground table in the center of an open room at the end of the hall with individual paper trays of toast, scrambled eggs, oranges, and little cartons of milk and juice. Every face at the table turns to you.

A man waves a piece of toast, calling “Well, hello there!” in a bright, overly solicitous tone, the kind salespeople use as they approach. His eyes are vacant even as they stare at you.

Others stop chewing as their gazes roam over your face, your body.

Are you an exhibit or prey?

You know the schedule for today but not the rules. Is it more or less dangerous to reply?

The aide gives you a tray of food, which you clutch in both hands. “You can eat here,” he says, pointing to a low plastic chair. You have an assigned seat, like in preschool.

You don’t move. The seat is between the woman with partially grown-out pink hair that reveals the natural blond underneath and a man whose green pajama top is gaping open at his chest, exposing a thick mat of hair, a Roman numeral tattoo, and a keloid scar. You won’t be able to breathe, sitting that close to them. Penned in on either side.

“Fine, you can eat in your room this morning,” the aide sighs. “But you need to go to activity.”

He follows you as you walk back to your room and sit on your bed, placing the tray next to you. You open the cardboard box of cranberry juice and drink it in one long, thirsty gulp. The tray holds a plastic spoon and fork, but no knife.

You look around your room again. You’re used to sizing up spaces in a glance; it’s a professional skill. The room is eight by ten feet. There’s no closet. The floors are linoleum. There’s a window that isn’t really a window; it’s covered with a glaze and a tightly woven metal screen that lets in only the faintest wisp of light.

There’s one item in your room you didn’t notice before: a small dome affixed to your ceiling. You’ve seen this item in hotels and shops. You know exactly what it is. The dome is made of plexiglass to keep the camera inside from being tampered with or broken.

Even though you’re in an empty room with a watcher standing in the doorway, other eyes are still observing you.

You are no longer the daughter of one of the wealthiest families in North Carolina, accomplished equestrian, daily Wordle player, expert on dozens of types of flowers suitable for a statement wedding bouquet, and passionate fan of deep-tissue massages.

You are Case Number NC-0416729.

Copyright © 2025 by Sarah Pekkanen