“How do you rate my chances?” he asks as we wait to be called into the courtroom.

“Jeremy Crumpton doesn’t lose, remember,” I tell him before taking a huge glug of the hyper-strength coffee in front of me. I don’t think I’ve really slept for months as my team and I built the case. But we’ve done everything we can and now it’s just the final hurdle.

* * *

Will the Real Ms. Patterson Please Stand Up?

The headline screamed from the front page of yesterday’s Gazette. Accompanied by a picture of Leah—or is it Megan?—sporting a look the journalist had described as “conniving.” A photo of Chris, taken by a long-range camera as he was transferred from prison to a holding facility ready for the trial, made him look like a man on the edge of despair, face pallid and drawn. A victim. Falsely accused by a scheming, lying woman who would stop at nothing to destroy him.

The journalist had been creative in his use of terms like “sources close to Mr. Hardcastle suggest” and “friends of the falsely accused have intimated.” Quite frankly, it was a masterpiece. Not enough concrete fact to ever be tied to information leaked directly from my firm, but enough juicy tidbits to plant doubt with the jury. When Leah enters the witness stand and claims Chris killed Megan and kidnapped her, at least a handful of jurors will be more interested in which sister she really is than in the evidence she will give against my client.

Will it be enough? I don’t know. The article also included a request for anyone with information about Megan’s accident all those years ago to contact the Gazette; there was even the offer of a reward. I have to hope someone comes forward. But in the meantime, there’s a bounce in my step as we walk toward the courtroom.

Part Five

Megan

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“Will the Real Ms. Patterson Please Stand Up?”

The headline was ridiculous. But not as ridiculous as the swagger in Mr. Jeremy Crumpton’s walk, like a dressage pony carefully picking up each hoof with coquettish flair. He really thinks he’s won. If only he knew what was coming.

The eyes of the jury linger on my face. Are some of them wondering which twin I really am? Perhaps. Let them wonder. None of that matters, not any more. The case has already been decided, despite the efforts my husband and his superstar lawyer have gone to. I feel bad about the amount of money Valma will have shelled out at her husband’s insistence they must protect their only son from a lifetime in jail. She thinks he’s guilty. It’s etched so clearly into her features. She raises a hand to me, a tiny wave across the chasm of the courtroom. I don’t wave back but it breaks my heart to watch her face crumple at my hostility. I wish I could give her a hug and tell her it’ll all be OK, that her evil prick of a son will remain in his cage.