Chapter 2

"That is impossible," Mary whispered. "Who turned on those lights?"

Carter frowned and turned his gaze toward me. "Ms. Quinn, are you certain you never gave your keys or door code to anyone?"

"No. Absolutely not." My reply was firm.

Before Carter could speak again, the security guard let out a sudden gasp. "Officer Carter, look at this."

He pointed to a corner of the monitor. The feed came from a newly installed high-definition camera mounted on the side of the building. It captured a clear angle of my bedroom window.

He rewound the footage to roughly eleven o'clock the previous night. The curtains were not drawn completely shut. A slender gap remained.

Through that narrow opening, the outline of a woman appeared.

She wore the same gray silk nightgown I always wore. Her figure mirrored mine in every way. She stood beside the window, brushing her hair with slow, unhurried strokes.

My breath caught. The blood in my veins turned to ice.

"Wh-who is that?" Mary stammered, her eyes wide.

Carter studied the screen with fierce concentration. Abruptly, he turned to face me. "Ms. Quinn, is that you?"

I opened my mouth, but no sound came.

That silhouette and profile. I would know it anywhere. It was me.

I stared at the surveillance image, and a deep cold settled over my entire body. It could not be me. It was not possible.

The previous night, I had been in a hotel in the next city, on a video conference with my colleagues until very late. There was a complete record of my whereabouts.

So how could the woman on that recording look exactly like me?

"Officer Carter," I managed to say, my voice scratchy and unsteady. "I promise you, that is not me. I have proof of where I was."

Seeing the pallor of my face, Carter held back further questions. He instructed the guard to save a copy of the video for evidence.

"Ms. Quinn, the situation seems fairly clear now," Carter said. "Someone has been entering your home regularly, without your knowledge.

"And this person possesses a build and appearance remarkably similar to your own."

A tremor ran through me. "How did she get inside? There is no footage of anyone using the front door."

"That is the mystery we need to solve," Carter said grimly. "Let's go upstairs and have a look."

We walked toward the elevator. When we reached the door to Apartment 1602, I found myself frozen in place, afraid to step any closer.

Behind that door, a stranger who wore my face was hiding.

I fumbled for my keys, but my hands trembled so violently I could not fit the metal into the slot.

Carter took the keys from my shaking fingers and turned the lock with a smooth click. The door swung inward.

He motioned for us to stay back. He and his partner drew their batons and stepped swiftly inside. "Police! If anyone is here, show yourself."

The apartment swallowed the command and offered nothing in return. Not a creak. Not a breath.

After a long moment, Carter reappeared at the doorway. "It is all clear. You may come inside. The place is empty."

I inhaled deeply and crossed the threshold. A thin film of dust coated the shoe rack by the entrance, exactly as I had left it three months ago.

The living room was immaculate. Everything sat in perfect order, like a display suite waiting for a potential buyer.

The younger officer emerged from the kitchen and bedroom corridor. "Captain Carter, there's no sign of anyone.

"The windows are all locked from the inside. There is no indication of forced entry or a break-in."

Carter pulled on a pair of gloves and began a meticulous search of the room.

Mary crept in behind us, her head swiveling nervously. "This makes no sense. The cameras clearly caught someone inside. Where could she have gone?"

A deep unease prickled my skin. The cleanliness of the apartment felt wrong. It was too pristine, like a stage wiped clean moments before the curtain rises. The performer had vanished without a trace.

I stood in the middle of the living room, scanning every surface and corner. Nearly everything matched the snapshot in my memory.

But something was askew. I could sense it.

My eyes landed on the beige fabric sofa, and my heart thumped hard against my ribs.

"The sofa..." I breathed, the words barely audible. "It is not in the right spot."

Carter crossed the room to stand beside me. "What do you mean?"

"Before I left, the sofa was flush against the west wall. I moved it there so the balcony door could open all the way," I explained. "Now it sits a good eight inches away from the wall."

"Are you positive?" Carter asked.

"Completely." My voice left no room for doubt.

Carter crouched down and examined the hardwood floor near the sofa's legs.

"There are fresh marks in the finish," he said, straightening up with a deepened frown. "These scrapes are recent. A day or two old, at most."

Mary sucked in a sharp breath. "That is the noise! That low, grinding sound I hear every single night. A piece of furniture being dragged across the floor."

Every night, the other me was moving the sofa. But why? What possible reason could there be?

A chill snaked up my spine, settling deep in my bones.