A large accordion file lay empty atop a pile of papers. I knelt to examine what was underneath. It took me a few moments to realize that I was looking at my own work. Articles I’d written over the past eight years for various magazines and newspapers were there, some of them glossy and colorful, others printed in black and white from a website. I pawed at the pages, wondering when and how my sister had developed an interest in my work. When she spoke about it—a rare event—it was to tell me not to waste my time with fluff. Deep down, you’re pretty superficial, she would tease. You should put your talent to better use. There were photographs too, one of me standing next to a moai, a stone monolith from Easter Island, and another of Martin and me from a charity gala he’d sponsored. Someone—my sister, no doubt—had drawn horns on Martin’s head and a Van Dyke goatee on his chin. “Very mature, Claudia,” I said out loud.

While I tucked them back into the file, I realized there were other articles, not mine, mixed in. ARSON DESTROYS HISTORIC CHURCH, read one headline. It was about the Church of St. Aristarchus, the one Bruxton insisted that Martin had burned down. That was why I knew the name; Claudia had mentioned it to me. She’d called me last March and asked, Do you remember that old church I used to sleep in?

Which one? I’d asked.

St. Aristarchus, off Canal. Someone set fire to it.

What happened?

A kid decided to torch the place, she’d said. He thought nobody would miss it. Crazy, right?

I found four stories about the fire, and put all of them into my bag. Why would Claudia collect articles about that? I tried not to think about the implications while I went through the desk and sorted out papers. There were five past-due notices from a dentist in Lenox, Massachusetts, dated from May, June, July, August, and September; I dropped them into my bag, too. The recent credit card statements from multiple banks told the tale of a shopping spree gone wild. There were charges of thousands of dollars from designer boutiques, charges in the hundreds from spas and online retailers. One of the smallest charges surprised me the most, a bill from the iTunes store for more than three hundred dollars. How did anyone download that many songs in one session? The fake Claudia, with her food issues and retail bingeing, had as big a problem with addiction as my sister.