The rain turned into a freezing sleet that stung my skin, but I couldn't feel it. I stared at the glowing screen of my phone, at the woman who wore my face like a stolen garment. She adjusted her designer lapel—a piece from my own autumn collection—and boarded the helicopter where a broken Julian lay.
"Grace?" Ethan’s voice was a jagged whisper. He was looking from the screen to me, his hands still stained with the soot of the wreckage. "You told me you were an only child. You told me the Harts were gone."
"I was," I choked out, the bile rising in my throat. "Eleanor told me my twin was stillborn. She gave me the death certificate when I was twenty. I kept it in my jewelry box for years. It was the only thing I had left of a sister I never knew."
"She didn't just hide her," Ethan said,
