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Once a Twin

By @writercat383

When Danielle and I were just seven years old, we caught Mom watching one of her favorite crime shows. We decided to become detectives. Mom laughed when we told her and said, “That’s my girls.” She’s a police officer, and we were going to follow her footsteps. 

My dad chuckled too. “They’ll grow out of it,” he predicted to my mom one evening. And eventually, Danielle did. But not me. I still take pride in solving the cases on those shows before the main characters do, finding the facts and scribbling in my notebook whenever I need to figure something out, holding that childhood dream in my heart. I have this little red leather notebook that Danielle got me for our tenth birthday, and I use it as my “detective’s notebook”. I carry it everywhere and always take my “cases” in it. Missing your hairbrush? (That was Danielle. It was sitting on her dresser.) Wanting to find out where your date went when he was supposed to escort you to the dance? (Also Danielle. That was a good one. He’d made a pit stop at Dunkin’ Donuts.) Need to know what book to read next? (Danielle, again–I turned this one down. She went to the library.)

So, yeah–the only person I ever did this for was Danielle. She’s the only one who cared about me enough–no one else knew just how much I was into this whole detective thing. No one like her. There was never anyone like her. She loved me so much. I loved her back. But I never gave her what she deserved from me–I don’t think I ever could, even if I tried. I’ll never be as good as she was. At anything. At life. 

That . . . is wrong. Because now she’s dead. 

I’m tearing up again. I have to get out of here. I crouch down to Danielle’s body. “May the Lord rest your soul,” I whisper. “I love you. And I’m going to find out who did this to you if it’s the last thing I do.”

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