I shoved the shoebox back behind the sweaters like it was evidence of a crime I'd already committed. My hands were steady, but my pulse wasn't. I told myself I'd forget the photos by morning. I told myself a lot of things that week.
Heather never mentioned Amber again. She woke up the next day with that soft, sated smile she always wore after anniversary sex, kissed me like nothing had changed, and went off to her marketing meetings. I went to the firm, closed two contracts, and spent the entire afternoon pretending I wasn't replaying the image of Amber on that motorcycle—leather jacket open, eyes daring me.
Life went back to normal. Or at least it pretended to.
Three days later the mail arrived.
I got home first, like always. I dropped my keys in the bowl, loosened my tie, and sorted the stack of envelopes on the kitchen island. Bills. Junk. A thick cream-colored envelope with no return address, no stamp, no postmark. Just our address in neat, feminine handwriting and the word Heather underlined twice.
Something cold slid down my spine.
I almost set it aside for her. Almost.
Instead I slid my finger under the flap.
Inside was a single sheet of heavy paper and a small color photo—recent, printed on glossy stock. The woman in the picture was leaning against a black sports car, one hip cocked, sunglasses pushed up into auburn hair that fell exactly like Heather's. Same face. Same body. Same everything.
The note was short. Two lines in the same careful handwriting.
She's alive.
She wants to come home.
My mouth went dry. The photo trembled between my fingers. Amber. Alive. Looking straight into the camera like she knew exactly who would open this envelope.
I heard Heather's key in the lock before I could hide anything.
She stepped in, heels clicking, still talking on her Bluetooth about quarterly projections. The second she saw my face she stopped mid-sentence.
"Kevin? What's wrong?"
I held out the envelope. She took it. The moment her eyes landed on the photo, all the color drained from her cheeks. Her hand flew to her mouth.
"No," she whispered. "No, no, no…"
She read the note once. Twice. Then she crumpled it in her fist so hard the paper tore.
"She's dead," Heather said, voice cracking. "She's been dead to me for thirteen years. This is a sick joke. Some scam artist who found old pictures online."
But her eyes kept darting back to the photo. And I couldn't stop staring either.
Because the woman in that picture wasn't a memory anymore. She was real. She was out there. And she wanted back in.
Heather's breathing turned shallow, terrified. She looked small suddenly, fragile in a way I'd never seen.
I should have pulled her into my arms. I should have told her we'd throw the letter away, change the locks, call the police if anything else showed up.
Instead I felt it again—that low, dangerous warmth spreading through my chest.
Intrigue.
Heather's twin was alive.
And for the first time in eight years of marriage, I wasn't thinking about protecting my wife.
I was wondering what Amber's voice would sound like in person.
Heather sank onto the barstool, head in her hands. "We're not answering this. We're not doing anything. Promise me, Kevin."
I looked down at the torn note still clutched in her fingers and heard myself say the words I already knew were a lie.
"I promise."
But even as I said it, my mind was already racing ahead.