"There were two birth records," Dorian said. "Same hospital, same date, an hour apart. Twins, Sera, you had a twin."
"A twin," I repeated, because the word didn't fit anywhere in my head, didn't attach to anything, "you're telling me I have a sister."
"Had," Dorian said carefully. "Has. I don't—" he stopped, "the second record doesn't have a death certificate attached to it. Just a name change, filed eighteen years ago, and an address that hasn't been updated since."
"What name," my mother said. Her voice had gone somewhere very far away. "Dorian, what name."
He looked at the phone, then at her, and his face was almost gentle now, the way you'd hold something you knew was about to be dropped.
"Voss," he said. "The second birth record was amended, eighteen years ago, to the surname Vos
