I was getting angrier by the minute. Someone pretending to be my sister had traded on our family tragedies to gain sympathy from a stranger. I had a fleeting thought that maybe the girl who died had it coming. “Clearly she talked about me, too.” I spoke slowly because my mouth was dry. “You knew I’ve been living in Spain.”

Sarah nodded. “I remember being in her apartment, perhaps a month ago, and I asked about a photograph on her bookcase. It was the one of two young children in front of the Christmas tree. She told me that you were her sister, but that you’d never been close.”

I felt tears in my eyes. We’re not talking about my sister, I told myself. Those words didn’t come out of Claudia’s mouth. But still, Claudia had to have told the dead woman these things. What was their relationship? If they had met in some rehab program, they might have shared a lot of confidences. I’d tried to go to a couple of support meetings for families of drug abusers, and I’d been embarrassed by the details other people revealed. It hit me suddenly that the dead girl might not have known my sister that intimately, that the details she regurgitated could have been culled from a group meeting.

“Lily, is it true that you really have no idea where your sister is?” Sarah asked me.

“None at all,” I admitted.

“Ms. Lyons, would you mind taking a look at some mugshots, seeing if there’s anyone you recognize?” asked Renfrew. Sarah nodded. “Speaking of shots, let’s be clear about this,” Renfrew added, setting a snapshot on the table and pushing it towards Sarah. “Is this the woman you knew as Claudia Moore?”

It was a close-up of the woman I’d seen at the morgue. Her hair fanned out like a dark halo around her pale, freckled face. The shot must have been taken from above while she lay on the mortuary table. Her eyes were closed but she didn’t seem peaceful. She just looked dead.

Sarah looked at the photograph for a moment without touching it. “Yes.”

“Have you ever seen this woman?” Bruxton asked, sliding a second photograph across the table. From the side, I caught a glimpse of Claudia, head cocked slightly and arms crossed, glaring into the camera. It reminded me of those photographs people got on safari, snapping the furious wildebeest before it charged.

Sarah stared at the photograph, picking it up gingerly as if it were a relic. She stared at it silently, taking in every feature, then picked up the photograph of the impostor.

“That’s the real Claudia Moore,” said Renfrew. “Do you recall ever seeing her?”

Sarah stared at the photograph, as intently as an Egyptologist might regard the Rosetta Stone. She blinked a couple of times. “Well… this will sound odd, but… yes. It was her. I’m certain of it.”