Sophia rolled her eyes—big and blue, so like Julia’s. “James would never go for someone like her,” Sophia said. “She was just too weird.” Sophia walked into the kitchen. Julia followed and saw there was half of a beef taco, cheese congealing on a plate near a takeout bag. No wonder the place smelled gross. Following her sister, Julia wadded the thin paper around the remaining taco shell and meat—geez, Sophia could be such a slob sometimes—and tossed it into the trash while Sophia ran the tap and filled a glass of water.

“Well, if you’re asking. I didn’t kill her, okay?” She leaned a hip against the counter. “Do I look like a murderer?”

“Do I?” Sophia turned her head to peer over her shoulder. “What you look like is me.”

“Funny, I thought you looked like me.”

“Not so funny, not really.” She drank half the glass of water down.

“But it’s perfect.”

“Is it?”

“Oh, come on, Sophia. Do you think I really killed Willow? I can’t believe it!” Julia said. “Geez, get a clue.”

“She was shot with James’s gun. You were in his house. You could have stolen it.”

“You were in his house too. You could have stolen it.”

“You weren’t here the night Willow was killed,” Sophia accused.

Julia shook her head and opened the refrigerator, pulled out a can of Diet Coke. “Yes, I was.”

“Not all of the night. I heard you go out.”

That was the problem with this damned apartment. Too small. And though Julia slept in the loft, while Sophia had the bedroom, it was tricky coming and going without being seen or heard. When Sophia was at work—no problem, Julia would don her disguise and do whatever she wanted, as long as she had the car. That, of course, was an issue in this Podunk town with zero cabs and no Uber or Lyft drivers who wouldn’t recognize you.

Julia probably should have rented a house, as there were too many prying eyes in this building. Though it didn’t have cameras, there was always the nosy landlady to deal with. Or there had been. Julia had managed to take care of Phoebe. Julia was a master at opening locks, and finding the EpiPens hadn’t been hard; the old lady was always talking about herself.

Too bad she hadn’t died.

Yet.