Page 88 of Dead to Me

Ten Months Later

The infinity pool looked out over twenty acres. I floated near the edge, my glass of champagne on the stone next to me, and let the afternoon sun warm my face.

Past the pool were rows of trees, neat grass, and a private driveway that curved through two black iron gates before fading toward the road.

The mansion had seven bedrooms, nine bathrooms, a movie theater, two kitchens, a wine cellar, and a main closet bigger than the first apartment Malcolm and I shared.

I never cared much about houses. China did though. She would've loved this one, and that made me love it more.

I got out of the pool and wrapped myself in the white robe draped over the lounge chair.

My phone was next to it. There were sixteen notifications. I ignored most of them. I learned quickly that being China meant a lot of people wanted something from me.

Strangers found my social media and thought surviving tragedy made us close. My story turned into entertainment.

BRIDE SURVIVES WEDDING DAY MASSACRE.

That headline lasted almost two weeks before another one took its place.

CONVICTED KILLER MILAN HART SUSPECTED IN THREE WEDDING WEEKEND MURDERS.

Then came the interviews, the podcasts, and the online detectives. Everyone had a theory about what happened at The Bellamy Hotel. They were all wrong.

I went inside through the glass doors by the pool. The living room alone probably cost more than everything I owned before prison. The ceilings were twenty feet high. The fireplace was big enough for me to stand inside. China would have decorated it differently.

She liked gold. I liked black. My interior designer said changing things might help me heal.

I agreed. People accepted almost anything if you called it healing. It became my favorite word. Why did China sell the house she shared with Malcolm? Healing. Why did China leave town? Healing. Why did China cut off half her friends? Healing. Why did China stop eating seafood even though she used to love it? Trauma. Why did China sometimes forget stories from her own childhood? Grief. People wanted survivors to change. They expected it. That made becoming my sister easier than I ever imagined.

The money helped too. Malcolm left more than grief. He left investments, properties, and business accounts. There were complications, of course.

There were investigations into his business after Warren died, and records came out linking both men to deals that should never have happened.

Some of Malcolm’s money vanished in legal disputes. Plenty of it didn’t.

China had her own money too. While I was locked up, she built a life for herself. She had good credit, savings and investments. A successful consulting business. I didn’t inherit any of it. I just kept living in it.

But things weren’t the same. I went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. There was a bottle of champagne on the top shelf. I looked at it for a moment, then poured myself another glass and took it upstairs.

The main bedroom looked out over the back of the property. It was my room now. China always called it the master bedroom, even when people tried to correct her.

I put on a silk robe and walked into the closet. One wall was covered with designer bags, another with shoes. Most of them were China’s.

At first, wearing her clothes felt strange. But then I thought about how easily she wore mine while I was sent to prison. The discomfort faded. I ran my hand over a row of dresses from designer labels.

Prison taught me not to want much, but freedom changed that. I picked out a pair of slippers and went into the bathroom. Mama’s necklace lay against my chest. I never took it off. That wasn’t about pretending to be China. The necklace was mine now.

I paused in front of the mirror. After ten months, seeing my own reflection felt odd. Everyone else saw China. Sometimes, so did I. That didn’t scare me as much as it probably should have.

I learned the angle she used for photos. I learned the smile she gave to strangers. I learned which side she parted her hair on and how she signed her name. I learned which friends wanted hugs and which ones got air kisses. I learned her passwords, her routines, her favorite restaurants. I learned her life.

There were things I didn’t get right. Trauma explained those too.

My phone rang.

Aunt Renee.

I smiled before I answered.