Free Beautiful Lies by Jessica Warman

believe me. My gaze flickers back and forth between the painting and Robin. Finally, I say, “My sister is gone.”
    He blinks a few times, unimpressed by my declaration. “Your sister?”
    I nod. I am not wearing any makeup. My outfit—jean shorts and a pink polo shirt—is different from the style I typically wear. I know that most people would mistake me for my sister right now. Robin knows I’m an identical twin, but he’s never even seen my sister. I wait for him to fully recognizeme, to show some sign of understanding. I feel hopeful that, if anyone can see the truth, it might be him.
    He looks like he hasn’t been sleeping well. His hazel eyes are bloodshot. The skin around his lips is dry and chapped. “Well … do you know where she might have gone?”
    I ignore the question. I know I have to tell him the truth right now, before we can go any further.
    I don’t know quite how to say it, but I do my best. “Nobody knows who I am,” I whisper.
    He’s confused. “What do you mean?”
    “I mean what I said. Nobody knows who I am. Not right now, anyway.” I pause. “But you do. Right?”
    He squints at me. “Of course I know who you are.”
    “Tell me. I want to hear you say it.”
    “Tell you what?”
    “Tell me who I am. Tell me my name.”
    He cups my face gently in his hands. He tilts my head upward a little bit and steps closer.
    “Your name is Alice,” he says.
    Despite everything that I’m feeling—all the fear and panic and pain—I cannot help but smile at him. “Yes. I’m Alice.”

Chapter Six
    I’ve only known Robin for four months, but it feels like so much longer. Sometimes you meet someone and the connection is instant and undeniable. Aside from my sister, Robin is the only other person I feel close to. But we had a fight a couple of weeks ago. Until his phone call last night, I hadn’t seen or spoken to him in thirteen days.
    My aunt and uncle refer to him as my boyfriend, but they’re using the term loosely. Our relationship was never really like that, even though I think we both wanted it to be. But it always seemed impossible. At age twenty-one, Robin is a little too old for me. Even though I’m eighteen and technically an adult, there’s a quality to him that always made it clear to me that he was very much a
man
. It’s sort of there in the way he carries himself, so self-possessed and poised despite his disheveled appearance. He has a quiet intelligence that can be disarming. I’ve seen him drink for hours without ever appearing tipsy or out of control.
    It’s not just his calm presence, though, that makes him so arresting. He is a mystery. I’ve never met any of his family, and he’s never shown any interest in meeting mine. His face always has a five o’ clock shadow, no matter what time it is. He wears the same uniform pretty much every day: a white T-shirt, baggy jeans, and a beat-up pair of Converse sneakers.
    Like me, he is an artist. His paintings are all huge and intimidating, wild yet deliberate splashes of bright color applied with thick brushstrokes. Maybe I’m biased, but I think they’re some of the most beautiful pieces I’ve ever seen.
    His apartment seems so much cleaner today than I ever remember it being. The whole place smells like disinfectant. In the corner of the room, beside the kitchenette, a metal folding table serves as a breakfast nook. The table used to be constantly covered in pieces of mail, dog-eared books, dirty plates and bowls, and whatever else Robin didn’t feel like putting away. Now the surface is wiped clean, without so much as a stray drinking glass. The kitchenette countertops—made of chipped white-and-gold Formica—are bare except for a lone open container of orange juice. There are fresh vacuum lines on the shaggy beige carpet. I didn’t even know Robin
owned
a vacuum cleaner.
    “So help me understand,” he says. He presses the back of his hand to his forehead. Even though his hands are clean, there are rusty