A heave racks my shoulders as I move down the body to examine the most important place. Deep ligature marks show on the wrists, and a tertiary glance shows more of the same at the ankles; she was tied up before death. I pause at the cadaver’s hips. The pubic hair appears oddly normal, and out of respect for the person this once was—and because I cannot believe that I’m here—I mentally block it out for what I’m about to do next.

Slipping two shaking fingers between the knees, I apply pressure until the thighs part just barely. Discolored, spongy skin stares at me, like a zombie’s. But the puckered flesh at the top of the inner right thigh is unblemished and without any trace of the semicolon-shaped birthmark that dots both my and Angela’s skin.

I take two giant steps back and slide, dumbfounded, to the ground. Shock pulls my eyes wide before something works its way up my throat. Inappropriate noises bubble, gurgling like a carbonated drink. I cover my mouth as best I can against the shaking of my ribs, but it’s no use—giggles spill from my lips, and pressing my hand tighter only makes me laugh more.

Growing up, Angela always worried we would be mistaken for the other, even as she wanted us to be the twinliest of twins. She dressed in flowing earth-mother vibes in college to contrast my jeans and sleeveless button-ups but chose complementary colors to mine. Wore her hair down when she knew I liked mine up. She went to such lengths to set us apart and make our individuality known while still definitively linking us. Now she’s been mistaken for a stranger without nipples.

A sob interrupts my laughter and then I’m crying, bawling into my hands. Pools of wetness seep onto my tank top. My body quivers against the wall, digesting this final truth: she’s alive.

“Mademoiselle?” The director cracks the door.

“One second,” I reply, standing up. The body now seems a stranger, where seconds ago it could have been my own severed arm. I whip the sheet like I’m making a bed. It billows across the corpse. Who is this person? Remembering how Seb already identified this swollen stunt double as Angela, I check the left then right ankle and find the tattoo he mentioned. The symbol for Gemini. A Roman numeral two, curved at the top and bottom—the astrological sign for twins, although it, too, took a beating underwater; the skin is wrinkled, distorting the image. Could our birthmark have been removed? Could Angela have gotten it lasered off? Is the Gemini symbol a common tattoo here?

Details. These are all details I can’t process yet. Angela is alive. The only thing that matters is my sister is not anywhere near this morgue.

Angela’s whiteboard message flashes to mind. She’s alive and on the run from someone.