Chapter 9

The call came while I’m in the middle of class. My phone, tucked away in the teachers’ lounge to avoid distractions, is useless to me now. It’s the school’s comm system that crackles to life, delivering the message in that clipped, formal tone: “Mrs. Morales, please report to the principal’s office.” 

I run through every possible scenario as I gather my things. I’ve always followed the rules, never pushed boundaries. The principal has a reputation for being picky, so I make sure my earrings are modest, my clothes impeccable and modest, my conduct beyond reproach. What could she want now? 

But nothing prepares me for the sight that greets me when I step inside her office. Helen sits stiffly in front of the principal’s desk, her shoulders slightly hunched. When she turns, her eyes—so full of something deep and aching—hit me like a wave. Then, she’s on her feet, crossing the floor in a few urgent steps, wrapping me in a hug before I can process what’s happening. 

I blink, frozen for a beat before I lift one arm to return the embrace. A laugh bubbles up, shaky, uncertain. “Helen,” I say, “what are you doing here?” 

She says nothing, the principal looks grim in her seat and no one is speaking. 

“What’s going on?” I ask, my voice tight with worry. Helen doesn’t let go. She’s holding me like something terrible has happened, like I need comforting. 

She pulls back just enough to look me in the eye, and the expression she wears is full of pity and something  that makes my heart skip. 

“Why are you looking at me like that? Did someone die?” 

She shakes her head, but her hand stays on my arm. Her voice is quiet, careful. “Your mom called. I think she’s been trying to reach you. You weren’t answering, so… she told me.” 

I blink, confused for a second. My mom never calls unless she’s got something to complain about, or a guilt trip locked and loaded. And when she does call, I usually have Helen sit in with me, play buffer. She knows Helen. They’ve talked. 

“What? What did she say?” 

Helen takes a breath like it hurts. “Ray… it’s Elena.” 

And then it’s like a switch flips. A high, sharp ringing fills my ears—like an ambulance siren parked inside my skull. I can still hear Helen’s voice, but it’s muffled, underwater, the words echoing around that one sentence. 

“She’s dead.” 

My knees give out. I feel them buckle beneath me, but Helen’s already holding on, like she knew this was coming. Someone—maybe the principal—rushes over, and suddenly I’m being lowered into a chair I didn’t see coming. 

Everything slows. Sounds blur. My breath catches in my throat. I can’t seem to pull it in. 

“Breathe, Ray. Breathe!” 

There are voices, hands on me, too many faces swimming into my line of sight—teachers I barely know, all watching me fall apart in real time. 

Elena is dead. 

And then life slams back into fast forward. A scream rips out of me. “No. What? Say it again!” 

I’m shaking my head like that’ll undo it. Like I can rewind. 

“I talked to her last night,” I say, but my voice is unraveling. “Tell me what happened.” 

I’m soaked—someone must’ve poured water on me, maybe to snap me out of it—but I don’t care. I don’t feel it. I can’t feel anything except the burn in my throat and the way my hands won’t stop shaking. 

“What… what happened to Elena?” I whisper, and even I can hear the way my voice breaks. 

“ Your mom didn’t say.” 

I’ve never seen Helen’s eyes so wide. Her usual calm is gone, replaced by pure fear, and that alone makes panic rise like a wave in my chest. My heart stumbles. My stomach drops. This has to be a dream. It has to be. 

I talked to Elena just last night, two hours on the phone, laughing, venting, making dumb plans we’d never follow through on. And even after we hung up, we kept texting. Just last night. 

I manage a breath, sharp and painful. “I have to call Mom,” I say, pushing up to my feet, but hands stop me. Helen, maybe a teacher, I don’t even know anymore. 

“I have to call Dad… I have to call Elena.” 

“Don’t move yet. Just breathe, Ray. Try to breathe.” 

“I don’t have time to breathe,” I snap, lungs stuttering, throat closing. “I have to call—” 

But I can’t. I can’t even get the words out now. My chest tightens like it’s caught in a vise. Black creeps into the corners of my vision and the room spins. 

“I— I can’t—” 

“Call 911!” someone yells. 

And then I’m gone. 

When I wake up, everything’s heavy. Numb. My mouth tastes like metal and the fluorescent lights are too bright, too sterile. I blink, but it feels like my eyes don’t work right. 

Hospital. 

I know the walls. The beep of a monitor. The weight in my limbs like someone tied me down with sandbags. 

They sedated me. 

The next time I wake up, it’s quieter. Dimmer. My head’s clearer but only just. I turn and see someone sitting in the chair beside my bed. 

My dad. 

For a second, I think he’s a hallucination. I blink again, harder. 

“Dad?” 

He leans forward like he’s been waiting hours. “Thank God. Sweetheart, are you alright? How do you feel?” 

I sit up slowly, and he helps me, steady hands under my arms. I glance around—bare white walls, a stiff mattress, the distant sound of voices and rolling gurneys. 

“Where are we?” I ask. My voice comes out raspy. 

“We’re at the hospital,” he says gently. “I told your mom not to tell you until you were back home. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I just didn’t want you to hear it like that.” 

“Where’s Elena?” 

Silence. 

He looks at me, and his expression crumples. His shoulders tremble and suddenly my father—the man I’ve never once seen cry—turns away from me, hiding his face in his hands. 

The sound of his broken sobs tears something open in my chest. 

That’s when it hits me. 

It’s real. 

She’s gone. 

Still, I sit. Frozen. Then I shift, pulling my legs up, arms wrapped tight around myself. “We’re twins,” I say, like it’s something he doesn’t know—like saying it out loud will change the truth. “I would’ve known if she was hurt. I’d feel it… if she wasn’t here anymore.” 

But even with the weight of his words pressing on me, I don’t believe it. Not fully. Not yet. The grief is there, sharp and burning, but the belief… it won’t settle. 

“Baby…” My dad’s voice cracks as he turns back to me. His eyes are bloodshot. He wipes at them, but his lips won’t stop trembling. Then he pulls me into him, arms tight. “Don’t think about that right now. They said you fainted. Your blood pressure shot up.” 

I grip his shoulder and push gently. He pulls back, still holding on like I might shatter. My eyes burn, and I look up at him—his eyes are my eyes, the same shape, same brown-gold color, only his are full of pain I’ve never seen before. 

“Is it really true?” I whisper. “Is my sister dead?” 

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at me, face crumpling again. Then finally, he nods. Barely. His voice is a rasp. “It was an accident. Early yesterday morning. She… she died on impact.” 

I shake my head. It’s automatic. Violent. My throat goes tight, my whole body starts to tremble. “No,” I breathe. Then louder. “No.” 

He tries to pull me back in, but I shove him off. 

“No! That’s not true! She’s not—she’s not dead!” 

“Ray, sweetheart, please,” he begs, arms reaching for me, but I’m screaming now. Screaming and flailing, like if I can just fight it hard enough, the truth will undo itself. 

“Elena is not dead! She’s not—please God—please, please, just let her be alive. Let her be okay!” 

I cry until there’s nothing left. Until my voice splits apart and my lungs can’t pull in air and my whole body feels like it’s on fire. I beg. I break. 

And when they finally give me the sedative, everything goes black again. 

Twice. 

It takes a week before I’m able to fly home. Dad left ahead of me to be with Mom, but I had to stay behind—wrap things up, get my passport in order, handle the logistics that felt meaningless next to what had happened. When I finally land, it’s the day of Elena’s wake. 

The taxi pulls up to my parents’ house. The front gates are wide open, and the doorway is flooded with people—neighbors, friends, family. Strangers, even. Grief brings a crowd. 

I step out, tug my luggage from the trunk, and just… stand there. Staring. 

I’m about to walk into that house, and she won’t be there. Elena won’t come barreling down the hallway with that bright voice and that big laugh, throwing her arms around me like we’re kids again. She won’t scream my name and lift me off the ground like she always did. 

I swallow hard. There’s a lump in my throat that won’t go down. My eyes sting, but I’ve cried so much already I had to wear sunglasses to hide how red and swollen they still are. It still doesn’t feel like enough. Nothing will be enough. 

I sniff, dab my face with a handkerchief, and start pulling my suitcase across the granite-paved road toward the house. The street’s quiet. It’s always been a sleepy road, barely any traffic. So who the hell was driving so fast that early in the morning? Who was in such a damn rush they couldn’t see a woman just stepping out for coffee? 

Where were they going? 

The thought stabs through me and I feel my throat closing up again. I’m going to cry—again—but I force a breath in, steady myself, and keep moving. 

When I finally reach the front step, I start asking people to make way so I can get in. And the moment I cross the threshold, everything halts. 

Every voice. Every breath. Gone. 

I don’t understand why at first. Then I do. 

The silence. The stares. It clicks. 

My hair’s longer now—long like hers. 

And standing there in the doorway, I realize I look exactly like Elena. 

The guests notice it too—how much I look like her now. One by one, they approach me, offering soft condolences, hugs, and kind words about my safe return home. It’s all a blur, the voices around me muffled by the storm in my chest. 

Then I see Dad. He comes down the stairs, pulls me into a tight hug, and whispers into my hair, “I’m so glad you made it, sweetheart.” 

I cling to him like I might fall apart if I let go. 

When he steps back, both our eyes are glossy. His, red-rimmed. Mine, on the verge again. He reaches for my bag and says gently, “I’ll take this upstairs. Your mom’s in the other room with Noah.” 

Noah. 

My heart stutters. 

Noah. 

All this time, through the airport, the drive, the doorway, I hadn’t thought of him. Hadn’t let myself. But now I have to face him. 

I nod, unable to speak, and make my way down the hallway toward the living room. 

Mom is sitting in one of the dining chairs, staring at nothing and everything all at once. I’ve never seen her look like this. So small. So… defeated. Her black dress swallows her already pale frame. Her light brown hair sticks up in uneven spikes, like she hasn’t touched a comb in days. She looks haunted. 

“Mum,” I breathe out. 

Her head snaps up. Her eyes, dull and wet, lock onto me—and suddenly they flood with light. Like something impossible just came true. 

“Elena!” 

She leaps to her feet, rushes toward me, throws her arms around my shoulders and sobs into my neck. “I knew it. I knew you weren’t gone. I knew you wouldn’t leave Mummy like this. Elena, my sweet girl. My baby.” 

I hold her. I let her cry. 

Because I can’t tell her the truth. 

That I’m not Elena. 

That I’m Esmeray. 

I can’t face the shattering that would bring. 

But then—his voice. 

Low. Rough. Hollow. 

“No, Reina,” Noah says softly, stepping forward. 

I turn to him and see what grief has done. His beard is grown out, unkempt, his face sunken in all the places where laughter used to live. His eyes—dark, hollow, like the light has gone out of them. 

“That’s not Elena,” he tells her. 

“That’s Ray.”