“So, you know it’s Megan. But how to prove it?”

He narrows his eyes at me. “Isn’t that your job?”

He’s got me there. “Well, of course. But it’s probably easier for you to tell me the one thing you know that would prove it. A distinguishing mark, a tattoo, something that is definitively Megan not Leah.”

“They’re identical.” He looks at me like a teacher would at an errant pupil.

“Except twins are never really identical, are they?”

“Google the book Leah wrote and look at the cover.”

“I’ve seen it. I stayed up most of the night reading it. It has a picture of them. They are similar, I’ll grant you.”

“How very magnanimous of you. Could you tell them apart?”

“If I knew them, I would expect I could.”

He smiles and cracks his knuckles. “I doubt it. They are so alike they have each always pretended to be the other. Any time Leah wanted something Megan had, Leah would pretend to be Megan to take it. I guess Megan thinks it has some sort of poetic irony now.”

“But… piercings? Tattoos?”

“They have the same tattoo. To cover up the marks their dad gave them to tell them apart when they were babies. Leah had one dot on her ankle and Megan had two. Baby number one and baby number two. Now they both have flowers. The dots are amalgamated into the stamen.”

“So, let me guess, the tattoos are now identical?”

“Not quite. Leah had one more tiny stamen than Megan, to prove she’s the older one.”

“So that’s how you prove it.”

“You think Megan is stupid enough to forget that? You don’t think she’s already changed her tattoo to make sure she has the most?” There is a smirk on his face. “She does have a scar though. A car accident when she was in her late teens. She told me about it once when she was very drunk. It’s the only time she ever mentioned it, didn’t want to tempt fate, she said.”

“So, you know she’s Megan because you’ve seen the scar?”

“I wasn’t looking.”

“Sorry?”

He shrugs and smirks again. “It’s under her hair on the back of her upper neck. I didn’t look to make sure it was there. You need to find the hospital record. Match it to the scar and there’s your proof.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“That you’ll find sixteen-year-old notes of a few stitches and maybe a handwritten police report of an accident buried in an archive somewhere?”

I’m getting bored now. “Fingerprints?”

“Neither are on file.”

“She’s clever.” I wonder if I’m stating the obvious and the look on his face confirms that I am.

“Cleverer than I thought. Guess I married into some right old mess, didn’t I?” Chris’s laugh is somehow both self-deprecating and an alarming window into the mind of a man who just may be a cold-blooded killer.

God, he’s fascinating.

I take a break, grab a quick coffee and have a final scan through his file.