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“I know. You . . . look like your sister.” “Oh, you know—knew Zelda?” “Yeah, I, uh, wrote up the report. I was the responding officer, after the fire department. Officer Roberts.” “Good. Then you’re the man I need,” I say, smiling brightly. “You may have noticed that my mother is not exactly . . . with it. I’d really like a more reliable account of what happened, what the report says.” “Um, yeah, of course. I’m sorry I have to ask, but do you have ID? I’m only allowed to release details to the family and, well . . .” I nod sympathetically, hunting in my bag. I’m ninety percent sure I don’t have my passport with me, which is my only government- issued ID. “Um, I don’t have a driver’s license”—shit, hope he doesn’t ask how I got here—“and I seem to have left my passport . . . but I do have a Metro card with my photo and birthday? I live in France,” I explain. He looks uncomfortable. Is he kidding? “I’m obviously Zelda’s twin,” I point out. “If you have a picture, you could compare . . .” “Of course, ma’am. I mean, that won’t be necessary. Of course.” He fumbles awkwardly through a heap of papers. “Would you like to hear what I wrote up in the report?” “That’d be super.” He clears his throat and prepares to read aloud to me. I barely suppress a snort. Really? “I responded to a phone call from the Antipova residence at just before one a.m. on the night of June 20. Watkins Glen Fire Department had already arrived on the scene, and they were putting out the flames. A Mrs. Betsy Kline had alerted them to the fire from her own residence and then rushed immediately to the Antipova residence, where she discovered that Mrs. Antipova—” “O’Connor. Ms. O’Connor,” I correct. “Uh, okay, Mrs. O’Connor was found to be sedated, in her bed, sleeping. Apparently she has some, uh, health issues?” He looks up at me. “Quite.” “Well, the FD was eventually successful in putting out the flames,
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