Only One Way

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn’t my own. It was a two-way mirror, but the person on the other side of it could have been my twin. She looked identical to me in almost every way. Her blonde mousy hair was a tussled mess, just like mine. Her blue eyes, the same grey-blue that I inherited from my mother. Her petite frame matched mine. She was me, right down to the scar on her forehead.

Detective Martin stepped closer to me. “And they say doppelgängers don’t exist,” he commented, as he stared through the mirror with me. He held two cups of coffee, offering me one of the cups.

“Sorry, I don’t drink coffee,” I whispered. I couldn’t take my eyes from the mirror.

“Well, that busts the doppelgänger theory,” he said. He pointed to a cup on the table in the room. “Coffee. Black. No sugar.”

I shifted my eyes, without turning my head, and glared at the detective.

He looked back at me and laughed. “Ok, I’ll stop with the doppelgänger jokes. But, are you certain you don’t have a twin? What about your parents? Maybe they kept her a secret.”

“My parents are dead. Dad died two winters ago from the flu, and mom died shortly after from a broken heart,” but he knew that. He knew almost everything about me.

Detective Martin was hoping for answers. He walked away for a moment and returned with a cup of juice. The chains on the cuffs made that horrible clinking sound as I lifted my hands to accept it. The detective saw my look of discomfort. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You’ll be out of those in no time, when we straighten this mess out.”

Detective Martin was the only person who believed that I was innocent. Today changed that. The police department was swarming with officers trying to pull information from the woman concerning her whereabouts during the time that the crime had been committed. She was refusing to cooperate on their terms, upsetting their egos, and creating a disturbance in the department. I watched how she worked them up, how she teased them and then gave them nothing. I was jealous. If I were more like her I might not be wearing this orange jumpsuit with my hands and feet chained together, like a criminal.

“How did you find her,” I asked Detective Martin.

“At a gas station,” he replied.

“Was she robbing it?” I was desperate for more information, and it could be heard in the high whining pitch of my voice.

“No,” he said. “She was just there.”

“I don’t understand,” I shook my head. “What do you mean she was just there?”

The detective looked down at his coffee. “Officer Gespate spotted her and thought it was you, so he brought her in.”

“No, no, no!” I threw the juice cup across the room and pulled my hands up to yank my hair out. The cuffs kept me from reaching and I broke out into tears. “How does this help me? This isn’t going to free me!” I was angry and I ran my body into Detective Martin, unexpectedly shoving him into the glass. The banging noise could be heard in the interrogation room, causing the occupants of the room to look in the direction of the mirror.

Detective Martin had been caught off guard and regained his footing immediately. He grabbed my hands to keep me from doing any further harm. An officer popped his head into the room to check on our situation. The detective nodded to him that everything was fine. The officer popped back out as quickly as he popped in, and shut the door behind him. The lock could be heard falling back into place. I sobbed, as I felt my freedom slipping away once again.

“I want to go back now,” I cried. “Why did you bring me here?!” I was shaking my head as I pleaded to have this over with.

“Wait! Wait,” Detective Martin begged. “Just wait, I have an idea that’s been rolling around in my head. I want you to stay and help me, I want to help you.” His dark hands covered my white ones. He squeezed them tight. “I really do, believe me when I say that I want to help you.”

Calming myself was difficult. I didn’t want to go back to the prison. I wished in desperation for the woman to confess to all of those crimes that they charged me with, but she didn’t. The officers had left the room and she stayed, silent in the mirror, waiting for her lawyer to arrive.

The minutes felt like hours as we waited, watching my twin sit and sip her coffee. I remembered waiting in that same room, the walls, white and empty, felt intimidating and institutional. I had never felt such anxiety before, wondering what they wanted from me. I had been terrified. I didn’t know then, that it would be my last day as a free person. Seeing that room enhanced the feelings of terror that will stay with me for eternity.

Trembling, I watched the woman change position in her seat. She was reacting to the rattling of the door handle as it was being unlocked. I gasped, as a familiar man in a fancy suit walked swiftly through the door. He was carrying a briefcase in his gloved hand. An officer entered behind him and the man turned to speak directly to the policeman.

“Get the detective, I want to know why he’s holding my client.” His voice was stern with a tone of professionalism. It was a tone I recognized, from when he demanded the same respect for me.

“Yes sir,” responded the officer, with lackluster. “I’ll find him and let him know.”

The officer turned and exited the room, leaving the lawyer alone with his client. Scott Michaelson, my personal lawyer, my friend was there to help this woman. He was the same friend that promised me that he would protect me. Hot angry tears ran down my face and dripped from my chin. I watched as Scott bent over the woman and whispered something in her ear, flaunting their familiarity with one another.

I swallowed my pride. “What’s your idea?”

Detective Martin was a big man, over six feet tall. I stood just under five feet. He placed his large beefy hand on my shoulder and shook me gently. “I’m going to prove your innocence. I’m going to keep her here and put you in the same cell as her.”

“I don’t understand,” I whispered. “How is that going to prove anything?”

Detective Martin inhaled deeply, and slowly let his breath back out. He straightened his suit and adjusted his tie. “You’re going to confront her.”

Quietly, I continued to stare through the mirror at the woman I hated. I had been chewing on my lip until I bit through. I could taste the blood and tears mixing together in my mouth. I watched as a uniformed officer entered the interrogation room and brought out a pair of handcuffs that had been clipped to his belt.

Scott Michaelson looked surprised, his reaction was understandable. “What are you doing? Why are you handcuffing my client? Are you arresting her? For what crime?”

“Murder,” the officer responded. “Now, Ma’am, please don’t resist,” he said softly, as he held out his hands with the cuffs.

The woman looked pleadingly at Scott. Her attitude had changed quickly, from cocky to uncertainty. She slowly stood up from her seat and backed away from the table, and the officer.

Scott stepped in between them. “I would like to speak to the detective, please,” he asked respectfully. “I think we can straighten this out quickly,” he added. He turned to the woman to calm her. “I won’t let them do this,” he said. “I promise you, I won’t let them arrest you like this.”

I had unconsciously moved closer to the mirror, as I watched the scene unfold in front of me. I had reached out my hands and pressed my palms flat against the glass. That’s what he said, I thought to myself. “I won’t let them arrest you.” He promised.

“Can you just arrest her like that?” I asked the detective. “No evidence, no reason, just toss her in jail and throw the keys away.”

“It doesn’t work exactly like that. You know, there has to be a reason of suspicion, a trial…. Hell, you’ve been there. You probably know how it all works for the defendant, better than I.” Detective Martin picked up his coffee cup and stared into it, avoiding eye contact with me.

“I’m guessing that I don’t get a say in any of this,” I looked over at him. “Just take me to the cell.” I was feeling a lack of hope, and with it, a lack of expression. He looked up and saw that I no longer believed in him. He had nothing more to say, knowing that anything he did say wasn’t going to change that.

Detective Martin picked up the phone and dialed one number, an officer answered and mumbled something through the receiver. The detective replied back, “she’s ready.” A while later, after returning to the activity of observing the altercations within the interrogation room, I could hear the door unlocking. Detective Martin led me down the long hallways until we arrived at the location of the holding cells.

The cage was small, about twelve feet wide and ten feet long. It sat separate from the other holding cells. There was a sink, a toilet and a steel bunk bed. None of which were in any condition for proper use. I saw that the woman from the interrogation room was lying on the upper bunk. The detective opened the steel gate and waved me inside. He didn’t bother to remove my cuffs, instead, he closed the cage and left me to hop my way to the lower bunk. I sat down on the stiff mattress pad and swung my shackled feet onto the bed. I was unable to wear shoes with the cuffs on, but socks were permitted, which made it one less complaint for my nagging thoughts. I closed my eyes and tried to rest my brain. I tried to hypnotize myself into relaxing, using the counting method that I had been taught. Nothing was helping me with my tension, so I tossed about to release some energy.

“Do you have to do that?” A voice above me asked, a bit irritated.

I paused before replying, I chose my words carefully and spoke them calmly. “Wait until you’re in these chains, you’ll understand then.”

My words offended her. “I’m innocent. I won’t be in your predicament,” she sneered.

I closed my eyes and measured my breathing. “I’m innocent,” I responded.

There was no comeback.

“You murdered my husband,” I whispered beneath her.

“What did you say,” the woman asked angrily. I could here her shifting her body about in the bunk above me. Her head suddenly peered over the edge of the upper bed and she glared down at me. My face was hidden in the shadows of the steel bunk.

“You’re a murderer,” I replied loudly.

The woman jumped from the bed and landed on her feet. She came at me swiftly, without giving me a chance to defend myself.

“What do you think you know about me,” she cried as she kicked me in my side. The woman continued kicking me, until she tired. I had faced tougher blows during my stay in prison. The injuries that she inflicted were more like the gentle punches I was used to receiving from sentimental cellmates.

“You’re weak,” I said, without budging from my position on my cot. I looked up into her face. It was the closest that I had been to her. I noticed that she was wearing the gold studded earrings that my grandfather had given me for my sixteenth birthday. The collar of her shirt was ruffled silk. The blouse was see-through, but she wore my favorite lacy undergarment beneath it. “You’ll never survive in prison,” I said. “You need to change the outcome.”

She moved closer to the bed. I knew she was trying to get a better look at my face, because I would have done the same. As her face emerged closer, she saw me, and I saw her. Her eyes were wide as a startled deer, like mine were, when I looked into the mirror in the interrogation room. Her white cotton shorts touched my arm as she sat down beside me. I was wearing bikini bottoms under those shorts the day I was arrested. Now they were stored at the prison, in a clear bag, with the rest of my personal belongings.

“Who are you?” She asked hesitantly. She reached her hand out to touch my face. I clenched my hands and the chains clinked, startling her. She looked at the cuffs on my wrists and placed her hand over mine.

“I don’t know,” I answered her honestly. Tears slid down the sides of my face and into my ears, as I laid on the bed and looked up at her, wishing I could turn back time. “One of us shouldn’t be here, and I think it’s me. This day is everything I hate about myself.”

“She nodded to me, suggesting that she understood that something was eerily wrong. There should not be two of us in this cell, together, suffering the same indignity. “I’m innocent,” she repeated to me.

“I know,” I whispered, “but it can only go one way or the other. You need to lose your innocence. Take this gift that we were given and sacrifice a life as tribute to the one who gave it to us.”

I don’t know how she knew what to do, or why she followed through with my strange request, but she gently pulled the pillow out from under my head and placed it over my face. I tried not to struggle as she pushed the pillow down over my nose and mouth, cutting off the oxygen to my lungs. Everything I felt around me began to fade away as I slowly woke up.

“Did you have a good dream,” a familiar voice asked.

I looked over at Scott and smiled. “I don’t know,” I tried to recall the dream that was rapidly dissipating in the back of my head. “I hope so,” I said with a smile. “I was probably dreaming of you.”

Scott Michaelson was my friend. Growing up he could have been a love interest, except that he ran off to law school, and I had a fairytale wedding with the richest man I could find. Now, Scott was my husband’s most trusted attorney, and here we were, close friends, taking a field trip on a Saturday morning.

Scott laughed loudly. We were acting like children, flying away to Netherland. The top of the blue corvette was abandoned in his garage and the wind was tugging ruthlessly at my sun hat. I had tied the hat on with a silk scarf that I had brought with me. The scarf was a futile effort, because I could not muster enough trust to test its strength, and so I exhausted my arm holding the hat in place upon my head. My shirt’s ruffled collar waved madly about in every direction. I too was mad, maddened by delight and summer’s fever. I felt freer than I had felt in a long time. Today was exhilarating, and I chose to enjoy it.

A rest station came into view on the horizon. Scott shouted out that he needed to stop to fill up Sharona, his little blue corvette. I nodded to him, I was a bit hungry and thought that stopping for a bite to eat would be nice. Scott slowed the car down and pulled into the little gas station. There was a food shack at the other side of the parking lot. They were selling crab cakes and soft drinks, a common food in town, but not my favorite. He parked Sharona beside the gas pump and hopped out of the car without opening the door. I followed his example, and landed with a crunch in the sandy, crushed sea shell landscape. Here, the ocean’s gusty winds were as strong as if we were still riding in the topless car. I could smell wisps of crab cakes in the air, mingling and weaving in and out of the ocean’s salty scents. I followed the aroma to the little hut where a young man was grilling up the crabs and I asked him for two cakes on buns.

“Could you put some sauce in those little cups?”

“Would you like to buy a drink to go with that,” the man asked politely.

“Sure,” I said. “We’d like two soda pops, cherry sounds good!” I hoped that Scott didn’t mind me taking the liberty of ordering for him, but I really wanted to be on our way to the beach.

Moments later, I was carrying two bags of crab cake sandwiches and two cherry soda pops and walking back to the car. There was a police car parked at the gas pump next to ours. The officer was chatting with Scott. I wasn’t surprised, with Scott’s employment in the field of law, he was bound to know many officers. As I neared the two, I could hear parts of their conversation.

“She’s a beauty,” said the officer, “what year?”

“1961,” replied Scott, beaming with pride. “I call her Sharona.”

“Ha!” The officer laughed, “as in ‘My Sharona’! Love it!”

I smirked at the subject, Scott was so vain when it came to his car. He bought a pair of white leather driving gloves that matched the interior of the corvette, and he wore them everywhere. He used his gloves as a segue into talking beautiful women into going out on dates. As an exchange for an opportunity to ride in his little blue corvette, they were willing nitwits.

The two seemed to be enjoying their chat. Hating to interrupt, I declared that lunch was being served. “Sorry officer, but if I had known you were going to join us, I would have ordered some for you, too,” I said with a smile, and a hint of snippiness. We were close to our destination, and I was selfish. I didn’t want my morning plans interrupted.

“Anna Harding? Is that you?” The officer asked. He sounded a little uncertain.

“Yes. Yes that’s me,” I replied, losing my smile as I looked dismally down at our meals that were growing cold in their sacks. “Do I know you?”

“You’re the wife of the Mr. Harding? Of Harding Investments?” The officer probed.

“Yes,” I answered, “and no, before you even think it, I’m not having an extra-marital affair. Scott’s been my friend since middle school. We’re taking a day off together.”

“Aha,” laughed the officer, “I saw you two pass a few miles back, and I thought that was you.”

“What’s your interest in us, Officer…” Scott bent his head and squinted to read the policeman’s name badge, “Gespate?”

“Well, um…” Gespate coughed into his gloved fist, “there was an APB put out on the radio this morning.” He cleared his throat, appearing to try to hide his discomfort with rude noises. “People are looking for you, Mrs. Harding.”

“I don’t believe that,” I smiled, leaning my thin frame against the car. “Who would be looking for me? My husband? He’s been gone for three days on a business trip and won’t be back until next week.”

“There’s a detective waiting at the department,” Officer Gespate answered, “he’s been waiting for you for a while.”

“Detective who?” I laughed. “I don’t know why a detective would be interested in speaking with me.” I was getting frustrated. I contemplated taking the crab cakes back to the young man, to have him heat them up again. Instead, I threw them in the trash can by the gas pump. I tossed the soda pops, too, and with it went my determination to enjoy this day. Scott looked offended by my actions, and I was offended by the lack of his.

“Ma’am, I need you to come with me, in my car,” Officer Gespate stated.

“Why?” I asked with alarm. “Why would I do that?” I looked at the officer and then at Scott, shaking my head.

“There’s a detective who would like to meet you,” he said, “and ask you some questions.”

“What sort of questions?” I opposed the idea of taking a ride with the officer, but before I could form my rebuttal, a second police car pulled into the parking lot and parked nearby. I looked over at Scott for some sort of assistance, but he had already started to walk away and was going toward the direction of the second patrol car. Minutes later, Scott came back with the second officer in tow.

“You should go with them,” Scott said to me, suggesting that I should comply with the officers and do as they asked. “I’ll be right behind you, I just need to stop and change into something more presentable.”

I was taken by surprise at Scott’s decision, but he was the family attorney when it came to legal matters. I trusted him with the important things, so I indulged the officers and allowed officer Gespate to escort me to his car. I had imagined that I would be sitting in the front seat, beside him, I was offended when he opened the door to the back seat and asked me to get in.

“You know who I am, right?” I snipped at the officer. I looked behind me for Scott, but he was already in his car and moving away from the gas pumps. I rolled my eyes at the officer and reluctantly stepped into the back seat of the police car, feeling like a common criminal.

Half an hour later, I was sitting in an interrogation room, without a lawyer, being bombarded by questions about my activities over the past four days. Officers came and went, the department was stirred up with excitement over the prospects of such a high-profile crime in their own town. I was uninformed as to what the department was interested in discovering, and I was cocky with entitlement as I sat in my chair and played cat and mouse with them.

Two officers entered the interrogation room. They brought in a recorder and other equipment. Watching as they set up a video camera, I suggested that someone needed to bring me a cup of straight black coffee. “This movie star was going to need some caffeine to help motivate her to put on a lively show,” I said as I laughed.

One of the officers left the room and returned a few minutes later with a hot cup of coffee. He set it on the table in front of me. There was a loud thump that emitted through a mirror on the left side of the room. It looked like one of those two-way mirrors that you would see in a crime drama. The officers turned and looked at each other. “I’ll check it out,” one of them said. “There shouldn’t be anyone over there.” One officer departed and then returned a few moments later. “There wasn’t anyone over there,” he said. “I locked the door,” he uttered, to no one in particular.

I looked over at the mirror, puzzled. “Do you mind?” I asked the officers, pointing at the mirror.

One of the officers tossed a look in my direction to see what I was talking about. “Go ahead,” he said to me. “You’re free to walk around, you’re not a prisoner.”

Yet, I thought to myself.

While making my way closer to the mirror, the second officer spoke up. “They say it’s haunted,” he stated seriously.

“What? The mirror?” I asked.

“Yup. People say that they’ve seen things in it that were of a supernatural nature.”

“Shut up!” I yelled. “What? Like ghosts or something?”

“Something like that,” he replied. Both of the officers laughed, and I turned my head to look at them.

“You’re just playing with me, right,” I laughed softly.

“Yeah,” said the first officer, “but there are stories.”

“Lots of stories,” said the second officer.

I turned my head to look back at the mirror, and was jolted by fright, as the mirror showed me a reflection that wasn’t my own. The person looking back looked like me, but she looked thinner and very pale. She was wearing an orange jumpsuit and her hands were shackled. After shaking my head and rubbing my eyes, I dared to take a second look. This time I only saw a reflection of myself, wearing my white blouse with the pretty tank beneath it, and the ruffled collar around my neck. My eyes were wide as saucers. What did I just see? I looked over at the officers, they were working diligently at finishing up their task, and hadn’t noticed my reaction to my strange reflection.

“OK. We’re done here,” said the second officer. “Don’t stare too long into that mirror,” he remarked in a serious tone, “I’ve heard people tell about the crazy things they’ve seen. Lawyers and detectives, too, not just desk jockeys, like myself.”

“Haunted,” said the first officer, following the word with a haunting whistling sound that he made with his lips. The two officers left the room one after the other and shut and locked the door behind them. I could hear muffled laughter coming from the other side of the door, then trailing away, as the officers walked down the hallway.

I returned to my seat at the table. I was feeling nervous, both waiting for Scott to arrive and imagining what the investigation was about, and the mirror. My body reacted with a jerk, when the door knob started to rattle. The door was unlocked and Scott plowed into the room and my tensions immediately softened. An officer accompanied him. Scott turned to him and demanded to see the detective, before coming to my side where he bent down to whisper in my ear. “Did you tell them anything?” He asked me.

“I… I don’t think so,” I whispered back. “Why do they have me here? What’s happened?”

“Don’t say anything to them, don’t answer any questions. I promise you, I’m here to protect you,” he assured me.

A slight bit of doubt snuck into my mind, but I responded back with a tenacious smile. Something about the tone in his voice didn’t ring of absolute truth, or maybe it was the reflection in the mirror. My eyes slid past Scott and looked back at the mirror, I could feel it warning me.

The door opened once again, and a new officer entered the room. He unhooked a set of handcuffs from his belt.

“What are you doing? Why are you handcuffing my client? Are you arresting her? For what crime?” Scott was defiant, but again, his tone didn’t feel authentic.

“Murder,” the officer responded. “Now, Ma’am, please don’t resist,” he said softly.

I looked pleadingly at Scott. I stood up from my seat and backed away from the table, and the officer.

Scott stepped in between us. “I would like to speak to the detective, please,” he asked respectfully. “I think we can straighten this out quickly.” Turning to look at me, he said. “I won’t let them do this, I promise you, I won’t let them arrest you like this.”

Arrest me for what? I thought. I had unconsciously moved closer to the mirror. I reached out my hand and pressed my palm flat against the glass to steady myself. “Arrest me for what!?” I asked, terrified. “Who’s murder?”

Something happened to me when I touched the mirror. It was as if I had connected myself to a transmitting radio and only I could here the words coming out of it. My sanity told me that I was having a nervous breakdown. Voices speaking over top of voices were echoing in my head. I listened to their pleas in varying degrees of desperation. Don’t believe him, Scott is a liar. Don’t trust him, he is only here to help himself. I looked into the mirror and saw that the reflection of my hand was shackled. Images flashed in my head of Scott, he had been embezzling funds from my husband’s accounts.

“Who was murdered?!” I shouted out at Scott and the officer.

“Mr. Harding, your husband, Ma’am,” the officer replied, confused. “Didn’t your attorney inform you?” He asked me, while looking at Scott with a very questionable expression.

“No,” I responded angrily, “he must have been too busy being worried about getting caught, as he should be.” I paused for a moment, as I listened for the acknowledgement from the voices in my head. “Since he has been stealing money from my husband’s company for more than a year now. So worried, that he forgot to tell me that my husband is dead.”

Staring back at the officer, Scott was silent. Knowing that he was caught, he ran forward, pushing the officer out of his way, and bolted out the door and down the hallway. The officer quickly got back up and ran after him.

Looking back at the reflection of my hand, the shackle had disappeared. A voice rang in my head, “A sacrifice must be made, to pay tribute to the giver of this gift.”

“I already did,” I whispered, “last week.”

“Tribute accepted.”