Shattered Jade Valentine

I hadn’t seen Danny in two years. But when I got home from shopping one cold gray Sunday there he was, dead on my living room floor. I didn’t call the police. Only quietly disposed of the body and contacted a private investigator to hunt down my sister. She was to blame.

Two weeks later, I found James McRoe, PI extraordinaire, laid spread-eagle on my bed, pinned to the mattress by kitchen knives through his palms and ankles and his throat slit. The cash that I had paid him up front was strewn about the bedroom. I made a phone call, got ride of the body and slept on the couch that night.

The next day I ran errands. When I got home, later that night, I opened the door to find the maid dead in the corner, neck open from ear to ear and eyes wide and staring. My twin sister was sitting on the couch, just where I’d been the night before.

“You’re sick, Debra,” I told her, closing the door behind myself.

“You’re sick,” she mimicked me, then laughed. “There’s a body in the closet.”

“No, there’s not.”

“Hadn’t you noticed?” she inquired, mockingly.

“Why me?”

“Why do you think?” she demanded.

“I called Mom. She told me you were missing. For weeks, she told me. Where did you go?”

“Oh, I think you know,” she said, smiling. The knife was by her hand, on the couch. It was still bloody.

“No, I don’t. You need help, Debra.”

“You need help,” she repeated, and picked up the knife, standing. She wasn’t smiling anymore. “There’s a body in the closet,” she told me, tone matter of fact but her expression unsure, questioning.

“No, there’s not. Put the knife down.” I reached into my purse and felt the gun as she took another step forward.

“There’s a body in the closet. There’s a body in the closet. There’s a body in the closet.” She took a step forward with each monotonous repetition of the sentence, but the knife stayed at her side.

I pulled out the gun, pointed it at her chest. “Put the knife down.”

“What will you do?” she demanded, taking another step. “Shoot me?”

“Yes.”

“There’s a body in the closet,” she whispered.

She took another step. I fired, shattering glass, and she laughed.

Twenty-four hours later

“—a neighbor was the first to notice the smell. Further investigation revealed four bodies in the apartment. Daniel Porud, an attorney who had been reported missing several days ago, was found stuffed grotesquely into a cupboard along with the body of James McRoe, private investigator. The body of the maid, Rosa Gonzalez, was found in the corner of the room. The last body was that of Debra Valentine, sister of the only suspect in this case. Debra Valentine’s body was found in the closet of the master bedroom and is believed to have been there for more than two weeks. A shattered mirror with a bullet hole through it was on the couch. Jade Valentine, owner of the apartment and prime suspect, is still at large and considered very dangerous. Any information leading to her whereabouts—”

I turned off the TV and grinned at the mirror across from the hotel bed. “At this rate they’ll never find me. I’ve got them stumped, haven’t I?”

“Sure you do,” my sister answered, smiling back like she always did. “Will you start again here?”

“You’re crazy!” I laughed, watching my new neighbor walk by and speculating.

“No, Jade, you are.”