PART 5: THE WOMAN WITH MY FACE
I stared at the airport photograph until the woman’s face began to blur.
Her hair had been dyed to match mine.
Her coat belonged to me.
But makeup could not explain the shape of her eyes, the curve of her chin, or the small indentation above her left eyebrow.
She did not merely resemble me.
She looked like me.
The unknown number sent another message.
Russell told me you knew. I just discovered he lied to both of us.
I showed the phone to Simone.
“Don’t respond yet,” she said.
“If she has answers, I need them.”
“She may also be trying to lure you somewhere.”
My phone rang.
The same unknown number appeared on the screen.
Simone activated the recording application on her phone before nodding at me.
I answered.
“Who are you?”
For several seconds, there was only breathing.
Then a woman spoke.
Her voice sounded so much like mine that I almost dropped the phone.
“My name is Lydia Cross.”
“Why were you using my passport?”
“Because Russell gave it to me.”
“Why?”
“He said we were proving how easily your identity could be stolen.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”

“I know that now.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m not telling you until the police promise not to arrest me.”
Detective Holt had given me her direct number.
Simone called her from the second phone while I kept Lydia talking.
“Did you know Russell was my husband?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know he was planning to steal my house?”
“Not at first.”
“But you eventually found out.”
“I found out this morning.”
“What did you think you were doing at the airport?”
“Helping my mother.”
The room became silent.
“Your mother is Evelyn?”
“Yes.”
I gripped the phone more tightly.
“Then who are you to me?”
Lydia began crying.
Not loudly.
It sounded as though she had been holding the tears back for years.
“I think I’m your sister.”
Detective Holt arrived 12 minutes later.
She traced Lydia’s call to a motel near the interstate, but Lydia refused to open the door when officers knocked.
She demanded to speak with me by video.
The detective initially refused.
Then Lydia sent a photograph of a blue notebook filled with dates, account numbers, and details of the plan to take my house.
She also sent a 7-second audio recording.
Patricia’s voice was unmistakable.
Once June signs, the other one becomes the body. Same face. Same blood. No questions.
Detective Holt stared at the message.
“What does ‘the other one becomes the body’ mean?” I asked.
“I don’t know yet.”
But her expression told me she had an idea.
She arranged a secure video call from the police station.
At 9:06 p.m., Lydia appeared on a large monitor inside an interview room.
Seeing her move was more disturbing than seeing the airport photograph.
She tucked her hair behind her ear exactly as I did.

When she was nervous, she pressed her lips together in the same way.
Even the line that appeared between her eyebrows looked like mine.
She appeared slightly thinner, and her hair was shorter beneath the dark wig she wore.
But if she had walked past one of my neighbors wearing my clothes, no one would have questioned her.
Lydia stared at me through the camera.
“My God,” she whispered. “You really do look like me.”
“No,” I said. “You look like me.”
A faint smile crossed her face.
Then it disappeared.
“Evelyn always said you got everything.”
“Everything?”
“Our father. The safe childhood. The money.”
“My father believed you were dead.”
Lydia’s eyes widened.
“Who told you that?”
“His letter said Evelyn surrendered custody of me. He never mentioned another daughter.”
“Of course he didn’t.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means Malcolm chose you.”
Detective Holt leaned toward the screen.
“Lydia, we need facts. Begin with your date and place of birth.”
Lydia gave my birthday.
She named the same hospital printed on my birth certificate.
“What time?” I asked.
“Two fourteen in the morning.”
I had been born at 2:07.
Seven minutes separated us.
Lydia disappeared briefly from the screen before returning with a faded document.
It was the second page of the hospital delivery record.
The first page—the one Evelyn had shown me—documented the birth of Baby Girl A.
The second documented Baby Girl B.
Identical twin girls.
I touched the center of my chest.
“Why didn’t my father know?”
“Evelyn told him Baby B died.”
“How do you know that?”
“She told me when I was 16.”
“Where did you grow up?”
“With Evelyn’s sister, Margaret. I called her Mom until she died.”
“Did Evelyn raise you?”
“No. She was in prison for most of my childhood. When she was released, she visited occasionally. Every visit ended with her telling me about the sister who lived in a beautiful house and never had to wonder why her father didn’t want her.”
“That was a lie.”
“I know.”

“How?”
“Because I read Malcolm’s letter.”
I stood so quickly that my chair struck the wall.
“What letter?”
“The one he wrote after he discovered I was alive.”
My father had learned about Lydia 9 months before his death.
An anonymous message told him that Evelyn’s second daughter had survived and was living under the name Lydia Cross.
He hired an investigator and confirmed the truth.
Then he wrote Lydia a letter.
“He said he wanted to meet me,” she explained. “He said he had spent years believing I died at the hospital.”
“Did you meet him?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Evelyn intercepted the letter before I saw it. She kept it hidden until after he died.”
Lydia unfolded several pages.
My father’s handwriting covered both sides.
He had written that he never chose one daughter over the other.
He had taken me because Evelyn handed only one baby to the court-appointed guardian.
When he asked about the second infant, Evelyn produced a death record.
The record was false.
My father promised Lydia that if she contacted Adrian Cole, he would arrange a DNA test, correct the legal records, and amend his estate plan to provide for both daughters.
“He wanted you to inherit too,” I said.
Lydia wiped her face.
“Yes.”
“But Evelyn waited until after he died to give you the letter.”
“She told me he wrote it because he felt guilty. She said he never intended to share anything.”
“She lied to keep you angry.”
“I spent years hating you because of that lie.”
“Did you know about me when Russell and I married?”
“Yes.”
The answer hurt even though I had expected it.
“Did you ever contact him?”
“Not until last year. Evelyn said your husband was willing to help prove that Malcolm’s estate belonged to both of us.”
“You could have contacted me.”
“I believed you knew about me. Evelyn said you refused to share.”
“I didn’t know you existed.”
“I understand that now.”
Detective Holt brought the conversation back to Russell.
“When did you meet him?”
“Eight months ago.”
“At the investment seminar?”
“No. Evelyn arranged a private dinner.”
“Did you have a relationship with him?”
Lydia looked away.
“Yes.”
I felt the blow without being touched.
“How long?”
“Seven months.”
Russell had begun sleeping with my twin sister one month after meeting her.
“Did he tell you he loved you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you love him?”
“I thought I did.”
Lydia’s shame did not comfort me.
She had known he was married.

She had known I was her sister.
Yet she allowed the same man who kissed me goodnight to climb into her bed.
“He said our marriage was already over,” I told her.
Her face crumpled.
“He told me the same thing.”
“What did he promise you?”
“That once the house was recovered, he would divorce you. He said I could take my rightful half, and we would begin a new life somewhere else.”
“In Belize?”
“Yes.”
The overseas account belonged to a company Evelyn had registered in Lydia’s name.
Lydia believed the $320,000 loan would be divided between the sisters.
Russell told her I had agreed but wanted the transaction hidden to avoid taxes.
“When did you learn that I hadn’t agreed?” I asked.
“This morning. Russell called me from the hotel parking lot before he collected Patricia.”
“What did he say?”
“He said you were becoming suspicious. He told me to prepare for the final performance.”
“The airport?”
Lydia nodded.
Six months earlier, Russell and Evelyn had taken my passport and given it to her.
Patricia taught Lydia how I styled my hair and applied makeup.
Russell gave her my coat and coached her on my signature.
At the airport, Lydia used my identification to pass through security.
Victor had arranged for an employee to photograph her at the departure gate.
She did not board the flight.
She left through an employee corridor using a visitor badge Victor supplied.
“It was a rehearsal,” Lydia said. “They wanted to know if I could pass as you on camera.”
“For what?”
“Russell said you planned to leave the country after signing the loan documents. He said you were embarrassed about giving up the house and wanted people to believe you had moved overseas.”
“And you believed that?”
“I wanted to.”
Detective Holt placed the phone containing Patricia’s audio recording on the table.
“Where did you get this?”
“From Russell’s second phone.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
Lydia had been waiting in the hotel room beside Patricia’s.
The plan was for her to remain hidden until after the lender left my house.
Then Patricia would invite me to drink a glass of wine as a supposed peace offering.
A bottle of concentrated sedative was hidden inside Patricia’s second makeup bag.
Once I lost consciousness, Russell would move me through the garage and place me inside a rented van.
Lydia would change into my clothing, drive my car through the neighborhood, and make sure several cameras recorded her traveling toward the airport.
“What was supposed to happen to me?” I asked.
“Russell said they were taking you to a private medical facility.”
“No such facility exists,” Detective Holt said.
“I know.”
Lydia explained that she became suspicious when Russell left his second phone in her room.
She searched it and found a recording of a conversation between him, Patricia, and Evelyn.

Detective Holt played the full recording.
Evelyn spoke first.
Once the loan clears, June cannot be allowed to make a report.
Russell answered.
Lydia can remain visible for a few days. Neighbors will think June is still home.
Then Patricia said the words from the first recording.
Once June signs, the other one becomes the body. Same face. Same blood. No questions.
Russell’s voice followed.
What happens to the real June?
There was a brief silence.
Then Evelyn replied.
Victor knows a place where no one will find her.
“And what were they planning to do to Lydia?” Detective Holt asked.
Lydia closed her eyes.
The plan was to keep her alive long enough to impersonate me.
She would appear on security cameras, send messages from my phone, and sign a letter claiming I was leaving Russell.
Several days later, Lydia would be placed inside my car.
The car would be driven from an embankment and set on fire.
The body would be identified as mine.
Dental records could be manipulated.
And because identical twins share nearly identical DNA, a genetic comparison with items from my home would not expose the substitution.
My legal death would end any dispute over whether I had disappeared voluntarily.
Russell, as my supposed grieving husband, would present a forged will leaving him my remaining property.
Meanwhile, my real body would never be recovered.
One funeral would conceal 2 murders.
I covered my mouth.
“They planned to kill both of us.”
“Yes,” Lydia whispered.
“And you still waited until today to contact me.”
“I was afraid.”
“So was I.”
“I didn’t know who I could trust.”
“You could have trusted the sister you helped them destroy.”
“I’m sorry.”
I wanted to hate her.
Part of me did.
But the woman on the screen had been raised on a carefully constructed lie.
Evelyn had taught her that I was the thief.
Russell had pretended to love her for the same reason he pretended to love me.
Lydia had betrayed me.
But she had also been selected to die.
“Why did you send the airport photograph?” I asked.
“Because it was the only proof I could send without exposing where I was.”
“Who took it?”
“Victor.”
“Where is the original?”
“In the blue notebook.”
Detective Holt instructed the officers outside Lydia’s motel room to promise temporary protection in exchange for her cooperation.
At 10:02 p.m., Lydia opened the door.
The officers recovered the notebook, Russell’s second phone, copies of the forged documents, and a flash drive containing 46 audio recordings.
Lydia was transported to the police station.
When she entered the interview room, I forgot how to breathe.
The video call had not captured the full effect.
She was nearly my exact height.

Without the wig, her hair was darker, but everything else felt like a distorted reflection.
She stopped several feet away from me.
Neither of us knew whether to shake hands, embrace, or turn away.
Finally, Lydia opened her purse and placed my missing winter coat on the table.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
I touched the sleeve.
Russell had given me that coat on our fourth anniversary.
Even the gift had eventually become a tool against me.
Detective Holt entered carrying an evidence bag recovered from Patricia’s hotel room.
Inside was the second black makeup case.
The gold zipper matched the bag Russell had placed beside my coffee.
The letter P was sewn inside.
This was the bag he had intended to bring home.
It contained makeup chosen to match my complexion, a dark wig cut like my hair, disposable gloves, plastic restraints, the sedative, and a one-way airline ticket in my name.
The departure date was Tuesday.
One day after the probate hearing.
At the bottom of the bag was a folded road map.
A red circle had been drawn around an abandoned quarry 63 miles from my house.
Beside it, someone had written: J first. L after the cameras.
June first.
Lydia after the cameras.
Lydia stared at the words.
“She promised she wouldn’t hurt me.”
“Evelyn?” I asked.
“My mother.”
“She was willing to have you killed for a house.”
“She said everything she did was for me.”
“People like Evelyn always say that.”
Lydia looked at me with my own eyes.
“I helped the man who wanted to murder you.”
“Yes.”
“How can you stand to look at me?”
“I haven’t decided that I can.”
She nodded as if the answer was more merciful than she deserved.
Detective Holt placed a laptop on the table.
“We recovered an additional video from Russell’s phone,” she said. “Both of you need to see it.”
The video had been recorded in my bedroom 3 months earlier.
Russell stood beside the bed while I slept.
Patricia was behind the camera.
He lifted my hand, pressed my fingers against several blank sheets of paper, and carefully guided a pen between them.
Patricia whispered, “Don’t wake her.”
Russell replied, “The medication will keep her asleep.”
I remembered that night.
Russell had poured me tea because I complained of a headache.
I slept for nearly 14 hours.
In the video, he removed the necklace my mother had given me and placed it in his pocket.
Then Patricia asked a question.
“When will Lydia be ready?”
Russell smiled at the sleeping version of me.
“She already thinks I love her.”
The recording ended.
Lydia turned away and became sick in the wastebasket.
I felt nothing.
The pain had gone beyond anything my body knew how to hold.
Detective Holt closed the laptop.
“With Lydia’s recordings, we can pursue additional charges against Russell, Patricia, Evelyn, and Victor. The house transfer has been frozen, and Simone’s emergency objection will prevent Evelyn from gaining possession before Monday’s hearing.”
“So we’re safe?” Lydia asked.
“For tonight, you’ll both have protection.”
Detective Holt’s phone rang.
She answered, listened, and slowly looked toward me.
“What happened?” I asked.
Officers had searched the abandoned quarry.
They found tire tracks matching a van rented by Victor.
They also found a recently dug pit.
The pit was empty.
But beside it lay a plastic evidence sleeve containing a copy of my dental records.
“That proves what they planned,” Simone said.
Detective Holt remained silent.
“There’s something else, isn’t there?” I asked.
“The officers found a second set of dental records.”
“Lydia’s?”
“No.”
The detective turned the laptop back toward us and displayed the name printed across the file.
SIMONE ELLIS.
Everyone looked at my attorney.
Simone’s face went white.
“That is impossible,” she said.
Detective Holt opened another photograph from the quarry.
Three pits had been marked on Victor’s map.
One for me.
One for Lydia.
And one bearing Simone’s initials.
Lydia stepped backward when she saw it.
Then she looked directly at Simone.
“I recognize you.”
Simone gripped the edge of the table.
“We have never met.”
“Yes, we have,” Lydia whispered. “You came to Evelyn’s house 8 months ago.”
“No.”
“You gave her Malcolm’s sealed file.”
Simone shook her head.
“That never happened.”
Lydia reached for the blue notebook and tore open a hidden pocket inside the cover.
A photograph fell onto the table.
It showed Simone standing on Evelyn’s porch with the same sealed package Adrian Cole had sent to my house that evening.
On the back, Evelyn had written a date.
The photograph was taken 2 weeks before Russell and I met.
Lydia looked at me.
“You think Patricia chose your husband,” she said. “She didn’t.”
Her finger moved toward Simone.
“She did.”…

Click Here to continue read next: PART6: My husband lost his temper when I refused to let his mother move into our house. The next morning, he placed a makeup bag beside my coffee and said