Page 23 of Dead to Me

“She’s my sister.”

“She was your sister six years ago too.”

China was quiet. That hurt to hear. I hated that it did.

China spoke more quietly.

“I thought maybe enough time had passed.”

“For what?”

“For her to let it go.”

I closed my eyes. She thought six years was enough for me to move on from prison. My mother died while I was inside. My father had a stroke. My name turned into something people whispered. China thought I should be healed just because time had passed.

Malcolm sighed.

“Just get through tomorrow.”

“And after that?”

“After that she leaves.”

A pause. Then China said something that made my mind go blank.

“She can’t find out I was there.”

My eyes opened. Malcolm spoke immediately.

“Keep your voice down.”

There. The night before my arrest. The camera footage. My sister was there.

I stepped away from the wall before they could round the corner and catch me.

I walked back to my room with cold hands. I unlocked the door, slipped inside, and shut it quietly.

I stood in the dark for a moment. I thought I would feel vindicated, but I just felt sick. It's one thing to suspect someone betrayed you, but another to hear them admit it.

I crossed the room and pulled the black duffel bag from under the bed. The photograph was on top. I set it on the bed.

I opened one of the envelopes. Inside were evidence photographs, printed articles, and a copy of the parking garage photo. I had stared at that photo thousands of times.

A woman in a hooded sweatshirt walked toward a silver sedan. My car turned up two blocks away the next morning, and my fingerprints were inside, but duh it was my car. I held the photograph closer. The woman’s face was turned away, and that was always what I noticed.

But I had never noticed her left hand, which was just barely visible near her pocket. A ring.

I set the picture aside and grabbed my phone. I still had old photos saved online from before prison. Most were too painful to look at.

I searched for China and scrolled through countless photos. Then I found it: China at twenty-three, holding a champagne glass. On her left middle finger was the ring our grandmother gave her. She wore it every day, even on the witness stand. I looked back at the security image and zoomed in. The picture blurred, but it was enough.

“Oh, China.”

My voice was barely a whisper. Then someone knocked at the door. I froze. There was another knock.

“Milan?”

It was China. I slid the papers back into the envelope and stuffed everything into the duffel bag.