SHE'S THE ONE

Growing up, they tell stories of star-crossed lovers - of soulmates. They claim that in a crowd of millions, your heart will instantly be drawn to theirs. What they don’t tell you is that love is anything but effortless - that your soulmate won’t just find you when the time is right, that being in love clouds your judgment. And most times, when you think you’ve found your person, that it's a connection like no other...life reminds you that nothing is that simple.

Soulmates or not, you can never guarantee they’re the one.

***

Wednesday, June 4th, 2014

I feel her soft hand grip my shoulder, slightly nudging me until she nearly pushes me off the bed. “Jason, get up.” Her tired tone urges me to lift my heavy eyes and turn off the alarm a few inches from my side.

5:30 A.M.

I quietly rise to my feet and watch her turn back over and drift back asleep. I feel bad waking her up so early. I warned her that I had to be up early during the weekdays, but she insisted I stay over most nights. I have my apartment not too far, but I’d call her place home if anyone were to ask.

I make my way down the wooden stairs that creak with each step. Each creak reminds me how old this house is.

This house got to witness Rosalie at every stage of her life. Her grandparents moved here late in life and left the property to their children. And when Rosalie's parents tragically lost their lives to a drunk driver when she was 19, everything went to her. She had the opportunity to sell the property but couldn’t bear to let go of the home that grew up with her. So she stayed, took care of the house, and used her inheritance to keep it as beautiful as her parents did, the home being the only family she had left. Last month I helped her replace the floors in the kitchen. We both had no idea what we were doing, but in the chaos of figuring it out, I could see our entire future together - here, in this home.

As the coffee brews, I slip into my uniform, clipping my detective badge to my belt and securing my holster. I swing open the porch door, coffee in hand, and sit on the steps, appreciating the stillness of early mornings. The way a light breeze grazes the acres of land surrounding the home. The way the wind whistles through the holes of the vacant wooden barn, standing tall next to the house. And finally, the way most people still lay asleep, with only the sounds of nature traveling through the air, like the owl in the barn that says hello each morning or the deer along the tree-line eating their breakfast like clockwork. Things I only get to experience at this time of the day.

6:02 A.M.

I down the rest of my coffee and make my way back up to the bedroom. I keep my steps light as I walk in, doing my best not to startle Rosalie awake. I look at her for a moment, in awe that she’s kept me around for the past six months. I didn’t plan on dating. I wasn’t even open to it - but then I saw Rosalie. With her long, vibrant strawberry hair, her sweet smile that creases into her cheeks, and a laugh that I’m determined to get out of her every day. The second time I saw her downtown, I decided to ask her to dinner, and now here we are, on the verge of moving in together.

I inch towards her side of the bed and lean down to kiss her forehead. I never leave her in the mornings without doing it. Sometimes she doesn’t notice, but today she stirs and mumbles, “mmm, love you.”

“I love you too,” I whisper and make my way back out of the house.

6:11 A.M.

I slip my keys into the ignition and flip on the headlights. I do a three-point turn and make my way down the dirt driveway, kicking up dust behind me. I reach the end of the long path and make a right towards town. The drive to work is about twenty minutes away, so I always leave early enough before my shift just in case a detour occurs.

A mile into my drive, I make my way around a bend surrounded by trees. As I get around the corner, my foot slams on the breaks, tires screeching as my seatbelt locks.

A woman covered with dirt, with clothing torn, stands in the middle of the road. It only takes a matter of seconds to realize that the woman stopping my truck was not a stranger…it’s Rosalie.

Confused and panicked, I shift my gear to park and launch myself out of the driver's seat. I race over to Rosalie and notice the scratches on her shoulder. I cup her face and lift her chin gently, so her eyes meet mine, “Rosalie, hey hey hey, what happened? How did you get out here? You were in bed. I just left you.”

Her breath is shaky as tears trickle down her cheeks, and finally lifts her chin to meet my worried gaze, with a fear in her eyes that ripped my heart to shreds. I have never seen Rosalie’s eyes look this fragile, this terrified.

I ask the same questions again, holding her as she shakes. I need to know how she got like this. “ Baby please talk to me - I need to know what happened." Urgency slipping from my lips, "I just kissed goodbye, how did you-”

Her body pulls back from me, halting my words. She looks me in the eyes, gripping tightly at my hands, “Jason, that wasn’t me.” Her words come out cold, shaky, and almost furious. She sees my brows beginning to crease and speaks before I can question her again. “Look, I know this is going to sound crazy, but I need you to listen to me.” She steadies her breath, “I have a sister, a twin. My parents disowned her years ago, and when they died, she came back from wherever she was but was so angry that they left everything to me. She threatened to kill me, and I thought that she was going to, but then she just…left.” The tears begin to swell in Rosalie's eyes again, “Yesterday, when you were away at work, she came back. But this time with a shotgun. She walked me back out into the woods, rattling on and on about crazy things like having conversations with herself. Then she told me that she had been watching me, that she learned everything, and that it was her turn." She pauses, "Jason…she wants to pretend to be me. I tried to grab the gun from her, but then I don't know happened. I woke up covered with leaves and dirt, with the back of my head bleeding, and I just started running. I ended up here waiting for someone to drive down the road.”

Rosalie falls into my arms, letting herself release the tears she held back. I try to imagine everything she said, replaying the previous night I thought I had spent with her. She’s telling me someone else woke me up this morning, someone with the same voice, same smile, and the same smell. Telling me that I had slept next to a stranger and didn’t even notice. That the woman I love was nearly killed, and I ate dinner with the person who had done it.

The thought makes me sick.

As I look down at the top of her head, I notice the small gash where her sister hit her. The muscles in my jaw clench at the sight and my grip around her tightens. "It's okay, you're safe now." Her body sinks deeper into my embrace.

After a few moments, I walk her to my truck and have her sit on the back bed as I make a call to the station. I tell them I need an ambulance and for my partner, Detective Welsh, to meet me at Rosalie's address.

Minutes later, the sirens grow louder as I hop off the truck to wave down the ambulance. They pull in front of my car and hop out, ready to take action. I tell the EMTs that she has a wound on her head, that she had been unconscious for a while, and I'm not sure if she has any other injuries. I place my hands around her torso and give her a gentle lift into the ambulance. As much as it pains me to leave her like this, I know she's in good hands. "I need to go back to the house now, okay?" Her flushed cheek leans into my palm as my thumb lightly wipes away her lingering tears. My lips press softly at her forehead, "I love you, I'll see you soon."

Right as I turn away, the sound of her voice snaps my attention back to her, “Jason…” anger builds in her eyes. “She thinks I’m dead.” And with those four words, I was back into my truck, racing towards the house.

6:40 A.M.

Welsh meets me at the end of Rosalie's driveway, and I bring him up to speed on what is happening. I can see the wheels turning in his head - spinning faster and faster with every new detail I disclose. By the time I finish, questions begin to spew out of his mouth. He quickly learns that I am just as in the dark as he is.

I need answers too.

We make our way up the driveway and park out front, looking at each other for a second before striding our way towards the front door. I turn the knob on the door only for it not to move. I forgot that I always lock the door behind me when I leave and don't have any spare keys. Now we’re locked out, and I have no choice but to knock.

My fist collides with the door loud enough to make sure whoever was in that bed could hear me. After a second time of knocking, we hear quick footsteps trailing down the steps, followed by the lock coming undone.

The door swings open, and a woman that looks exactly like my girlfriend stands only a few feet away. At first, she looks at me with a smile but it fades when notices she my partner behind me - his hand hovering over his gun. Her smile instantly drops. “What’s wrong?” she asks quickly.

I look at her, probably for too long, observing every little thing about her. That worried look, that voice, the tiny mole on her neck…and my stomach sinks because I can’t even tell the difference.

“Jason?” her voice drags me back from my spiraling thoughts.

What do you even say in a situation like this?

I stare back at her and get straight to the point. “Do you have a sister?”

This question seems to not only confuse her but terrify her.

She swallows, takes a breath, and starts to nod, looking almost regretful. “I do. But I haven't spoken to or seen her in years. Why? Did something happen?” Worry floods her features as she inches closer to me. But when she takes a step forward, I instinctively take a step back. Her breath hitches at the sight of my sudden distance, alarmed by my cold demeanor.

I cleared my throat, “We found Rosalie, and she told us what happened, what you did.” Her eyes widen, giving room for her tears to fill. “I’m gonna need you to come with us for questioning about the attempted murder of Rosalie Bradwish.” My sharp tone penetrates her heart, and with her close enough, I can almost hear it shatter. The tears she holds at the surface begin to make an escape, running from the pain that my words provoked.

Her head shakes back and forth, “No, no, no, Jason, please. She threatened me years ago. She'd do anything to hurt me. Jason, you can’t trust her.” My partner ignores her resistance and forces her towards his car.

I stand frozen as she looks back at me, pleading for me to make him stop, “you have to believe me.” Her cries grow into sobs, “Jason, it’s me, you know it’s me. Please-” Her voice then muted by the closing of the backseat door. I catch myself about to stop Welsh from driving off, but then watch as dust clouds form behind them, putting distance between us.

I thought I would show up here and arrest the woman who hurt Rosalie. I thought I would look her in the eyes and not fall victim to her familiar features. That my heart wouldn't recognize hers, and I would leave certain as to which one of them is my Rosalie.

But I was wrong.

9:20 A.M.

After driving back to the station and catching others up to speed, I did some necessary paperwork and research. Hospital records confirm that Rosalie had a twin sister named Hadley Bradwish. Unfortunately, neither of them have any fingerprints or dental records on file. The Bradwish family seems to have steered clear of any medical assistance over the years, which means there is no quick forensic fix to tell them apart. Detectives typically have to have someone unbiased working the case if they are close to the victim or suspect. But this is a unique circumstance in which I am the only one who knows Rosalie well enough to figure out who’s telling the truth. My partner will co-lead this case to make sure I don’t let my emotions hinder my performance.

10:20 A.M.

The hospital finally gives us a call that "Rosalie's" injuries are minor and that she is good to go. With that, we send over a trooper to transport her back to the station.

About twenty minutes later, both women sit at an empty table in two separate interrogation rooms. We choose to observe them for a short period before entering, trying to detect anxious behavior. Body language is the most effective way of determining whether or not someone is lying. Over the months, I’ve noticed that when Rosalie is stressed, she bounces her right leg and uses her left hand to rub at the back of her neck.

I look into Room One from behind the two-way mirror. The one from the hospital is shaking her right leg and rubbing the back of her neck.

Then I walk over to Room Two and observe the exact same anxious behavior.

One of them is lying, one of them is Hadley…and I will do everything I can to figure out the truth.

11:00 A.M.

I gather a list of questions and official records and enter one of the dimly lit rooms with Welsh by my side.

The one I found in the middle of the road narrows her eyes directly into mine, “Please tell me you got her.” Her breath held in her chest as she waits for my response.

“We went back to the house and found her, yes.” The breath she held been holding in released, and her shoulders lose their tension with my words. The relief she felt wouldn’t last long, “but we’re gonna need you to answer some questions and confirm some information for us-"

"Yes," She squared her shoulders. "Ask me anything. Whatever it takes to get me home."

“Great, because your sister also claims to be Rosalie Bradwish, and we’re here to figure out which of you is not who you claim to be.” My words come out sharp, visibly cutting into her chest. All relaxation in her body vanishes within seconds.

“You don’t know which one?” Her voice cracks with a single tear grazing across her flushed cheek. After a moment to collect herself, her eyes break open, zeroing in on mine. I fell madly in love with those brown eyes a long time ago. Except these eyes aren't looking at me with the love that they usually do - these eyes are cold, filled with anger. Then she finally speaks, “What do you need to know?”

With her willingness to answer questions, we get through all of the official, standard ones; what bank do you use? What is the pin on your credit card? Your medication history? The doctor you use? Your Social Security Number?

Each of her answers confirming our records.

11:48 A.M.

We walk in to question he woman I woke up to. Her eyes red and swollen, fixating on me as we break the threshold to her room, her once bubbly features now coated with desperation. My body fights the urge to comfort her, to wipe the tears from beneath her weary eyes. But I resist because these eyes are familiar, they are the same pair of eyes in the next room over.

I tell her we needed to ask her questions to confirm information, and she gives me the same response the other woman did; sad and disappointed that I can't even tell them apart.

She agrees to answer whatever questions she needs to. We run through the same set of questions trying to see if she could not respond or hesitates. But just like her sister, she was able to answer every question correctly. No hesitation, confident in her responses, and hoping she’ll get to go home.

12:50 P.M.

We were hoping that the initial questions would do the trick, but each of them answer with no signs of unfamiliarity. We then decide it’s time to bring my relationship with Rosalie into play. I’ve written down nearly a hundred questions about us, about the time we’ve spent together. I go into each room and ask the questions with my partner observing.

“What did we do on our first date?”

They had the same answer.

“What is the code to the safe under the bed?”

They had the same answer.

“What word that I use do you always correct me for saying it wrong?”

They had the same answer.

2:29 P.M.

None of this makes sense. I asked questions that even I barely remember the answer to, and they both knew what to say. One of them was twisted enough to learn every little detail about the other. Every pet peeve, every memory, even down to the way Rosalie breathes when she’s stressed.

Before taking a break, Welsh and I get their statements for what happened the previous night.

The one I found petrified in the middle of the road explains everything she can remember, “After you had left for work, I got up and made myself eggs. I took a shower and got myself ready. Then I had to run in to town and pick up some groceries we were running low on and the cleaning supplies I needed. I got back to the house around noon and cleaned the two bathrooms. I think after that I just kinda lounged around for a little bit reading a book.”

“And what book was that?” Welsh raises his eyebrows.

She looks at him, emotionally exhausted and already irritated, “Does it matter?” her voice laced with aggression as she waits for his reply.

He nods, “Every detail you can give us is important.”

With that, she told us it was the one her dad gave her for Christmas when she was in high school. “About an hour and a half before you were going to be home, so like 6:30, cause you’d said it would be a late night, I wanted to get started on dinner, so I went to walk out the back door, and that’s when I saw Hadley. She had a shotgun pointing at me. She had freshly made hair, clothes I had never seen her wear, and then it hit me. She was dressed up exactly like me. Wearing clothes that I know came from my closet. Which means she had been sneaking into the house, probably when I would go out to town.” She takes a second to gain control of her emotions, “I started asking her why she was doing this, what she was doing there, but she just pointed the gun at me and told me to start walking. We walked past the old barn, across the field, and into the woods. We passed by my dad’s old tree-stand I never took down. Do you know which one I’m talking about, Jason? The one I took you to see when I showed you around the property?”

I nod.

“We walked about half a mile past that, and that's when she stopped talking to herself and started talking to me. She told me that it wasn’t fair what my parents did, that her selling my mom's jewelry was no reason to disown her. But then she said that it was her turn, and that’s when I knew she would shoot me. So I launched myself at her trying to knock the gun out of her hand…and then I, I don’t know. I woke up covered in dirt, my head was pounding, and I started running towards the road. That’s when you found me.”

3:10 P.M.

It was time to hear the other story—the story of the woman I kissed goodbye this morning.

She starts with her take on the previous day, June 3rd. The beginning of her story mimicking the one we heard first, “Then I got back a little after noon and got to cleaning. I even got rid of those old mouse traps we planted a few months ago under the laundry machine.” She gives me a knowing look because I had been telling her to throw them out for weeks. “After that, I got a shower and read my dad’s book for a while. Around seven, I started prepping for dinner, and I spent a while in the kitchen. Then I went out to the garden to grab some herbs to finish off the food, and that's when you came home.”

Welsh chimes in, “Can you tell me anything else, a little more detail about right before Jason showed up?” Her face tilts upward as she struggles to remember, “Maybe when you walked outside, did you hear or see anything unusual?”

“Um...I saw some smoke in the distance, but I assumed it was the next farm over, probably just burning up trash as the old man sometimes does." She ponders for a few moments, "I don’t know, I uh, remember grabbing the herbs and turning back to head towards the house. Right before you pulled up, I think I heard the owl in the barn, saw a few bunnies run out from behind the old shed. I noticed the roof on the shed was starting to fold in and went to go check on it but then I saw the dust cloud and your truck heading my way and I got distracted. You parked, got out, hugged me, and we went in to eat. I’m not sure of anything else. It was just a normal day.” She finishes and I gather my notes preparing to leave the room. As I stand, her soft skin lightly grips my hand. I let the familiar sensation of her touch linger for only a second before pulling away and leaving her behind me.

4:30 P.M.

After we took both of their statements, we decide it's time to take a break from interrogation. I offer to go check out Rosalie’s house for anything out of place, giving myself time to process everything.

When I get to the house, I walk around the property, taking slow strides as I observe. I head towards the garden and see where she had picked herbs from the night before.

I hate that I believe them both.

I keep asking myself if Hadley would be crazy enough to injure herself. To stage everything so perfectly; the head wound, the cuts on her shoulder, the elaborate story. People don’t usually take things that far. But what if she did?

And perhaps the woman I woke up to is my Rosalie.

I loop around to the front porch and seat myself on the steps. I run my fingers through my hair, lightly pulling it out of frustration. My forehead rests into my palm as close my eyes, replaying each of their stories…

“She thinks I’m dead.”

“I made eggs.”

“She said it was her turn.”

“I heard the owl in the barn, and I saw a bunny run-”

My thoughts come to a standstill. I lift my eyes and dissect the sight I drink coffee to each morning. The view I have spent time and time finding any moment to appreciate. Spending countless hours discovering the routine of the land surrounding this house - what to expect from it. I know it well enough to tell you that the owl in the barn always says good morning…never goodnight.

“I heard the owl in the barn….”

I know which one my Rosalie is.

*** Three Days Later***

Saturday, June 7th, 2014

11:15 A.M.

I settle myself down on the familiar steps, holding a newspaper in my left hand and coffee in my right. The news wasted no time when they heard about the Bradwish case. The title loud and enticing:

WOMAN ARRESTED FOR THE ATTEMPTED MURDER OF HER IDENTICAL TWIN

After I found the slightest hole in her story, it changed everything. I ran back to the station and confronted the woman, the one who had been in bed with me that morning. I told her we knew she was lying, and I asked her simple questions; naming everything she bought from the store, asking her about the last words she said to me before I left that morning. She got flustered and started taking longer to answer questions. She even changed her mind on some answers because she “couldn’t remember exactly.”

Eventually her timeline began not to add up, and it was enough to make her look guilty. They released Rosalie, and I prepared for her to write me off forever. Instead, she saw me and hurtled into my arms, emotionally drained but thankful that I finally believed her.

She also has been reminding me every ten minutes that I will have to spend every day of my life making it up to her - and that's exactly what I intend to do.

*** Two Months Later ***

Monday, August 4th, 2014

6:45 P.M.

Tomorrow is the trial against Hadley Bradwish. So far, she continues to deny the allegations and refuses to go by the name Hadley. The main charge being held against her is attempted murder in the first degree. Luckily, Rosalie’s head has almost fully healed up; her concussion is no longer an issue. Through all of this, I grew to appreciate Rosalie more than ever. For the way she still loves me even though I nearly broke her heart. And when my guilt begins to take over she tells me that it's okay. That she understands how hard it was and that she had no idea what her sister was capable of.

I sit outside my girlfriend's house, holding a testimony in my hands. Rosalie and I will be taking the stand tomorrow, and I want to make sure I don’t leave any important details out. I whisper pieces of my statement, “I was driving down the road when I saw her…She unlocked the door after I knocked a second time…I went back to the house after questioning…Then I found the first flaw in her stor-”.

My words pause at a familiar sound.

With the pots moving around from Rosalie cooking, I put a small distance between myself and the house, listening for it again. After a few minutes without another sound, I shake my head and pivot towards the house. A breeze teasing the glorious scent of Rosalie's dinner as I make my way back over-

There it is again.

And then again.

And again.

My eyes shift to the old wooden barn, and my stomach twists.

“I heard the owl in the barn….” She said.

“That owl doesn’t come out at night!” I raised my voice as her tears streamed down. “I know it’s you, Hadley, you messed up, and now all I need for you to do is mess up again…because you will, and when you do, you’ll pay for what you did to Rosalie.” She went silent, looking at me like I was the villain.

I playback the moment I thought I caught her, the moment I thought I figured it all out. I stand frozen, listening to the owl as the sun sets, staring through the kitchen window; and watch her - the beautiful woman I chose to fight for because the owl never reveals itself at night.

But it does.

And maybe it did the night of June 3rd.

Maybe it didn’t.

I keep my eyes fixated on the Rosalie I chose. The one who forgave me so quickly. The one who made me promise never to doubt her again. The one who’s been trying new things, claiming she’s finally free of the past that's held her down for so long.

And as I stand here, observing the way she moves…doubt creeps in.

And now I’m not so sure that she’s the one.