Chapter 4

I checked out of the hotel and took a taxi back to my apartment building.

To avoid drawing attention, I sat down by the window at a café across the street. From there, I had a clear view of my own window.

I stayed until the afternoon, watching for any sign of movement inside. When nothing stirred, I slipped upstairs.

I unlocked the door, stepped inside, and locked it behind me. Everything sat untouched. The sofa had not budged.

I pulled on disposable gloves and began a slow, careful search. I looked beneath the sofa, under the bed, and into every corner and crack.

I hoped to discover a single hair that was not my own, some small proof that another person had been here.

But I found nothing. This other version of me was disturbingly thorough.

Unwilling to quit, I checked every trash bin in the apartment. All of them sat empty, the way I had left them.

No one living a normal life produces zero waste. Unless she carts it out with her every time she leaves.

I walked into the kitchen. My eyes fell upon the sink strainer. An idea flickered through my mind, and I reached down to lift it.

At the bottom, tiny sticky bits of fruit clung to the mesh. A faint sweetness rose from them.

A few long blonde hairs tangled in the strainer as well. They looked identical to my own.

I took out a small sealable bag and packed everything away with care.

When I finished, I prepared to leave. As I changed my shoes by the door, my foot struck something hard beneath the shoe cabinet.

I crouched and picked it up. A crumpled receipt from the all‑night convenience store beside my building.

The time stamp read two nights ago, 10:30 PM. One bottle of yogurt. The same brand that sat in my refrigerator.

My pulse quickened. She was not only living here. She was shopping, too.

How did she pay?

I pulled out my phone at once and checked my mobile payment records.

I had been away from town the day before yesterday. My history showed only work meals and taxi fares. There were no convenience store charges. I released a small breath.

Then a colder thought crept in. There were other ways to pay.

My hands trembled as I opened my banking application and scrolled through the transactions, line by line.

There it was. On my primary account, from two nights ago at 9:32 PM. Two dollars and seventy cents. The merchant was Sunrise Convenience Store.

She was spending my money. That stranger was using my own funds.

The shock of this struck me harder than seeing her shape on the video feed.

She was not merely invading my home. She was slowly erasing the boundaries of who I am.

I forced myself to breathe steadily. This receipt, this bank charge, was the first real proof she left.

I sent a photo to Carter and called him immediately. "Carter, I have found something important."

I explained about the bank transaction and the crumpled slip of paper.

A short silence hung on the line.

"Ms. Quinn, you need to exit that apartment now and go somewhere public," Carter said. His voice carried a gravity I had not heard before. "Is your bank card a chip card or does it use a magnetic stripe?"

"It is a chip card. I must enter my PIN to use it."

"She knows your PIN." Carter's tone was ice. "All right. Keep yourself safe and keep your phone close. We are heading to the convenience store to retrieve the security footage."

The moment I hung up, I could not remain a second longer. I seized the evidence bag and hurried out the door.

I returned to the café across from my building and sat there, restless, for over half an hour.

Carter called. "We have the footage. Can you come to the station?"

*****

I rushed to the Westside Police Station and met Carter in a small conference room.

His face was stern as he opened the video on his computer. The time stamp showed 9:32 PM, two nights past.

The camera above the convenience store entrance captured a familiar silhouette.

She wore a beige trench coat identical to mine. Her long blonde hair fell across her shoulders.

She walked into the store, went directly to the refrigerated case, took the yogurt, and approached the cashier.

When she lifted her head toward the register, her face filled the screen. It was my face.

Every detail matched. The same expression. The same tiny mole at the edge of my left eyebrow. There was not a single difference.

She took out her phone and produced a payment code as though she had done so a thousand times. The scanner beeped. The transaction cleared.

She picked up the yogurt, turned, and walked out, disappearing into the dark.

The entire sequence lasted under a minute. It was smooth and unremarkable like any ordinary night.