You push the custard tart across the desk toward Mrs. Chase, the paper bag crinkling like old case files. Her eyes flicker from the pastry to the pearl earring you've placed beside it—that same unnatural sheen as in the crime scene photo. 'You recognize this?' you ask, watching her face carefully. A shadow passes behind her watery blue eyes. Her gloves tighten around the handkerchief until the lace bites into her knuckles.

She draws a shaky breath. 'Charlotte.' The name drops like a lead weight. 'My sister. We haven't spoken since...' Her voice trails off as she touches the cameo pinned at her throat—an identical twin to the one in the photograph of her husband's abandoned car. The fan overhead groans on its next rotation, casting spiderweb shadows across her suddenly pale face.

Outside, a ship's horn bleats through the fog. You pour two fingers of bourbon into a chipped teacup and slide it to her. The liquor trembles as her hand closes around it. 'When was the last time you saw Charlotte?' The question hangs in the air like cigarette smoke. Mrs. Chase's lips part, but before she can answer, the phone on your desk rings with the shrill insistence of a death knell.

You lift the receiver to hear static and labored breathing. Then a woman's voice, ragged with panic: 'He's not who you think—' The line goes dead. When you look up, Mrs. Chase has gone bone-white. A single tear cuts through her powder as she whispers, 'That was Charlotte's voice.' The custard tart sits between you, its flaky crust now split open like a fresh wound.