Joy and Tiers

by Mary Crawford

  “One thing I’ve learned is that the motives of criminals rarely ever make sense,” I respond. “You’ll drive yourself crazy trying to figure out how they think. You can’t apply logic to the illogical. But, before we decide this is criminal, we need to rule out the possibility that this is just an honest mistake.”

  Ivy perks up a little. “It really could all just be an honest mistake, right?”

  “It’s unlikely, but there is an outside chance that there’s a simple, non-nefarious explanation for everything that’s going on,” I explain, trying to let her down as easy as possible without giving her false hope.

  “Can I have your login information to BrainsRSexy.com? I’m going to try to see what’s going on at a programming level to see if I can see both profiles. I’m also going to sign up as a “client” to see if I’m matched up with one or the other of you or both of you.”

  “Sure, my sign-on is IDreamInColor and my password is TrustbutVerify911” she replies.

  I smirk at her sense of humor. It’s too bad she’s a client.

  “Does anyone else use this log in?” I inquire.

  She shakes her head, as she says, “No, only me. My dad is paranoid. He bought me a new laptop when I came to college and he made sure it had biometric security features on it to make sure that other people were not plagiarizing my work in the dorms. If he knew how poorly I’m doing in my accounting classes right now, he’d know that there’s no danger of anyone working off of my papers.”

  “This might be a dumb question and none of my business, but if you don’t enjoy working as an accountant, why are you majoring in accounting?” Tristan asks me, a look of genuine curiosity written all over his face. Yet, his expression is completely judgment free.

  “Well, interestingly, that seems to be the $64,000 question this week. The short answer is, I don’t know. I guess it’s like being with a guy who doesn’t really care if you are a good parent or a good wife. It’s easy to go through life on autopilot trying to make other people happy.”

  “What about what makes you happy? Isn’t that the most important thing? Doesn’t every other decision you make in your life flow from that? If you’re not happy, you can’t have a happy relationship with anyone else. You can’t have an unhappy marriage and expect your kids won’t pick up on your stress.”

  “You know, for a guy, you give pretty solid relationship advice,” I quip.

  “I guess I don’t really see myself as a relationship guru. I just know what I lived through as a kid. My parents decided to stay together to keep up appearances. Unfortunately, when there were not people around to show off for, they completely forgot to be nice to each other and especially to us kids. Even when I was little, I understood the level of hate and vitriol in that household was not normal. But, I was far too young to have the power to do anything to fix it. I swear if I ever get married, I’m never going to put my kids in that situation. If my marriage is ever on the rocks, I’m going to have the courage to do the right thing and not stick my kids in the middle,” I state emphatically.

  “I totally understand why you would feel that way. I would hope if I were in that situation I would be brave enough to do the right thing too,” she admits. “It sounds like you’re going to be an amazing dad someday. But, you’re right. I need to decide what I want to do for me instead of trying to make everyone else happy,”

  An alarm goes off on Ivy’s phone. She glances down at it and gasps as she looks at the time. “Oh Crap! I’ve got to go. I have a test in a few minutes,” she declares as she picks up her backpack and snaps the closure on her purse.

  I touch her on the shoulder as she is headed out the door. She pauses for a moment as I say, “Ivy, don’t worry about this. I’ve got it covered. I’ll figure this out. It’s as good as done.”

  Ivy gives me a small tight smile as she says, “Yes, I know. We women have an intuitive sense about these things.”

  I scrub the sleep out of my eyes and try to wipe out the impressions of the keyboard from my cheek. If there is anything predictable about this case. It’s that nothing, I mean nothing, has followed the normal script in this case. Just when I think that I’ve run down a lead and followed it to a conclusion, something else pops up.

  I’m going to meet Rogue Medea Cisneros Betancourt face-to-face and see if I can get a better feel of the threat level. If she is trying to cover her identity, she has done a really crappy job of it. It’s all pretty much out there for the world to see. Ms. Betancourt has a habit of being chronically late with her rent but somehow manages to not get evicted. She seems to patch her income together from several sources, including a scholarship.

  I watch her enter the coffee-shop and tuck herself into an isolated booth. She removes a large textbook and yellow highlighter from her backpack. On the surface, she looks nearly identical to Ivy. But, that’s where the similarity ends. This woman is much more self-aware and wary. Her eyes are watchful and openly suspicious as I approach her table with a steaming cup of coffee. “Would you like some coffee?” I ask as I hand her a cup of coffee. “I had the barista sign and date the lid around the rim so you would know that I didn’t tamper with your drink or anything.”

  “Oh, okay—” she responds looking confused.

  “Hi, I’m Tristan,” I continue, grabbing a table near hers.

  “Well, Tristan, if you’re good enough to buy me coffee at o’dark thirty on a Sunday morning, you’ve earned a spot at my table. Not that I’m in a great mood for company,” Rogue says as she gestures for me to have a seat.

  I move my book bag over to her booth. “It’s okay, I don’t think anyone is here this early on a Sunday morning,” I reply with a grin.

  Rogue is taking great care to scrutinize me from head to toe. I force myself to relax and breathe normally.

  “How about you tell me why you’re really here, Tristan? I have homework to do; otherwise, I might enjoy a little game of cat and mouse. I’m just going to put it out there. I have serious doubts that you’re just some college student out bright and early on a Sunday morning trying to pick me up,” she challenges. Her body language screams closed off, if not totally hostile.

  I can’t help but smile at her uncannily accurate reading of the situation. I nod my head in acknowledgment as I address her, “Please allow me to more formally introduce myself, Ms. Betancourt, my name is Tristan Macklin. I run a security company called Identity Bank and your name has come up in connection with the case. I have a few questions that will just take a few moments of your time, if you don’t mind.”

  I watch as her eyes widen with alarm. “Security Company? Is my mom okay?” she demands, her voice growing husky with emotion.

  Once again, this case is not following the typical script. That’s not even close to the reaction I expected to receive. “Yes ma’am, as far as I know the case I’m working on has nothing to do with your mother. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you,” I explain.

  “Does this have to do with my so-called-father,” she asks pointedly. “Did you know he ditched my mom when he found out she was pregnant? He was even a no-show in the delivery room even though he promised to drive her and stay by her side.”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t have any information about him either. Although, it would be tempting to try to find him just so your mom can get what she’s owed,” I comment.

  Rogue slashes her fingers through her hair and it settles around her shoulders in and intoxicating puddle of wild beauty. For a second, I am completely mesmerized. “I don’t understand. Why are you here?” Rogue whispers harshly.

  For the first time in a long while, I really don’t want to have to do my job. Usually, there are pretty clear-cut good guys and bad guys. In this case, none of that’s clear. In fact, I’m not even sure there are any bad guys at all. Well, with the exception of Rogue’s dad. But, I owe Rogue at least some sort of explanation and I owe Ivy a satisfactory resolution to this case. I won’t get that resolution unless I figure out what role Rogue plays in t
his drama. I have a theory that is growing increasingly likely with every second I interact with Rogue. But, if it’s true, it’s going to rock the world of both women.

  I hear a snap in front of my face. “Tristan? Did you a hear word I said?” Rogue asks with the look of exasperation on her face.

  “I’m sorry, I was gathering my thoughts and I missed that,” I confess.

  Rogue’s shoulders slump in defeat as she hisses, “Oh God! You must have to tell me something really f-ed up. Do I need to have somebody here with me?”

  “What? No… well not unless you want to,” I stammer. Geez, I must’ve left my professional demeanor in my other pants pocket this morning. “I don’t necessarily have bad news for you. It’s just a really complicated situation I’m still trying to puzzle out. I’m still not sure how it’s going to resolve itself. A lot of it depends on the information you provide,” I explain. I hate how disjointed I sound.

  Rogue relaxes just a bit and sits back into the booth. “Please go on with your explanation because you’re starting to freak me out,” she instructs making a sweeping gesture with her arm.

  The tension is thick in the room as I pull an 8 x 10 glossy of Ivy out of my folder and place it in front of Rogue. I am so relieved I obtained Ivy’s permission to disclose the details of this case as I deemed necessary because this is not playing out how I originally thought it would.

  Rogue picks up the picture and immediately drops it as if it is on fire. “Holy shit!” she exclaims. “Who the hell is this? She looks just like me, but that’s not me.” Rogue is looking at me, her eyes pleading for answers. The myriad of emotions crossing her face reminds me of the viewfinder toy we had as kids. One second, she looks angry, the next hopeful, the next scared, the next excited. Finally, she turns very pale and still.

  “Does this mean what I think it means?” Rogue asks in a voice barely above a whisper.

  I reach out and grasp her hand, which is ice cold. “Rogue, I wish I had some answers for you, but I don’t. The pieces of the puzzle aren’t coming together neatly.”

  A single tear slides down Rogue’s face as she pleads, “Tell me what you know.”

  I start to tell her the whole saga, “My client, Ivy Love Montclaire came to me because she suspected someone had stolen her identity. She encountered some unusual activities—”

  Rogue interrupts me, “Don’t tell me...she signed up for BrainsRSexy.com. I knew I didn’t recognize that picture!”

  “How could you post a profile with a picture that’s not yours?” I ask, trying to understand the situation.

  “Funny you should ask because I just happen to have a really awkward story to tell you,” Rogue says with a self-deprecating grin. “My best friend is this guy named Marcus Brolin. Marcus thinks he’s a regular standup comedian and one day he and a bunch of buddies got a little buzzed. They decided it was a spectacular idea to sign me up for this ridiculous matchmaking website to alleviate my chronic single-hood. Unfortunately, they didn’t warn me ahead of time that they were going to do this. Since I work for Marcus at the tattoo parlor, he knows all of my email addresses and passwords. We’ve been friends for over six years so, whatever biographical information he didn’t know about me, he just embellished. But, even he can’t figure out where the picture came from. He thought maybe one of the other guys had it on their phone. But, we went back and checked and no one’s ever seen that picture before. So, it must belong to Ivy. Yet, I’m not sure how it got on my profile. I didn’t put it there.”

  I think about her question for a minute and use my background in computer science as I try to figure out what might’ve gone on behind the scenes. It’s extremely far-fetched but I guess it’s theoretically possible. “Okay, I have an idea, but it’s a total long-shot. It presupposes a lot of things that we haven’t even almost begun to prove.”

  “First, I have a hunch you and Ivy are actually twins,” I announce, trying to be gentle with my earth shattering news.

  “I don’t even know how to respond to that,” Rogue admits as she takes a large gulp of coffee. “I mean, on one hand, I have the picture right in front of me. It’s hard to argue with that kind of proof. You’ve actually seen Ivy, does she really look this much like me?” she asks, the question looming over us like a large thundercloud.

  “Rogue, I don’t know which answer you’re hoping to hear. But, unequivocally, she is the mirror image of you physically,” I confirm. “But, beyond that, your voices and laughter even sound the same. Her Vermont accent is a little stronger, but her tone sounds very much like yours.”

  Abruptly, the atmosphere in the restaurant changes again. I’m not quite sure what I said to trigger the change. Rogue is looking almost faint as she asks in a low, strained whisper, “Did you say Vermont?”

  I consult my notes to make sure that I’m not making a mistake, “Yes, some place in upstate Vermont ... Oh here it is—Hopewell Springs,” I confirm.

  This time, Rogue visibly sways. I yell at the barista, “Grab me an orange juice and chocolate chip cookie.”

  The barista quickly brings them over. “Don’t worry about it. They’re on the house.”

  I nod at her as I say, “Thanks.”

  I stick a straw in the juice and unwrap the cookie. “Rogue, you’ll feel better if you take a sip.”

  Trembling, she grasps the straw and takes a long sip and then eats a small bite of cookie. “I don’t even know how this is possible. I’m not adopted. How can I have a twin? But, I know that I was born in Hopewell Springs. I’ve seen my birth certificate. My birth certificate doesn’t list me as a twin. None of this makes any sense,” she argues.

  “Remember when I said there were pieces of the puzzle that don’t fit? Those are some of the pieces that don’t fit. For example, Ivy has a completely different birthday than you,” I concede.

  “I want to go back to the mystery of the dating profile for a minute. Bear with me as I work through a very strange theory. It might be nothing or it might be the key to what happened. I’m kind of a science and genetics nut. I’ve studied a little bit about the genetic bond between twins and I wonder if it might apply to you and Ivy.”

  Rogue glances at me sharply as she replies, “How could it? I didn’t even know she existed.”

  “But, what if your brain processes information in the same way?” I suggest. “Look, my theory could be totally whacked. But, I think maybe you an Ivy have exactly the same email address and password at BrainsRSexy.com and somehow your profiles got merged.”

  For the first time in about twenty minutes, Rogue smiles. She’s pretty enough to stop traffic with any expression on her face, but when she smiles, she takes gorgeous to a whole other level. She chuckles in a deep husky tone that reminds me of hot buttered rum, “Oh man, that would be wild, wouldn’t it? They could write scholarly papers on it or something,” she says laughing. Do you promise not to laugh at my stupid email address and password Mr. Security person?

  “As long as your password isn’t ‘password’ or 1234,” I tease.

  “Do people really do that?” she asks, shock evident in her voice.

  “With frightening regularity,” I reply wryly.

  “Whew, I guess I’m safe then,” she responds, with a wink. “Mine is a little more complicated than that. My username is IDreamInColor and my password is TrustbutVerify911.”

  I draw in a sharp breath as I realize the implications of what happened. It’s one thing to have scientific curiosity about how the whole twin connection works; it’s a whole different thing to see the very real human ramifications play out in front of your eyes. I shut my eyes briefly as I try to collect my thoughts and determine the best way to frame the discussion.

  When I open my eyes, it’s clear Rogue has already drawn her own conclusions based on my facial expressions and body language.

  She looks at me with misty eyes and simply asks, “We did the impossible, didn’t we?”

  I nod slowly. “You sure did.”

  “What do you
think the odds are we could have done that without being twins?”

  “I’m no math major, but between your username and password, there are about 30 digits. I remember from my statistics class that the odds of guessing an eight digit number is about three trillion to one. It goes up exponentially for every digit thereafter. So, for 30 digits, you might as well figure that it’s pretty much incalculable. Additionally, your password is broken into two distinct units and contains both upper and lower case characters which makes it more difficult to guess,” I explain.

  Rogue shakes her head like she’s trying to clear an image. “I thought you might say that,” she says as she wipes her eyes with the little cocktail napkins that the barista provided.

  I reach out and remove the crumpled napkins from her hands and start to warm her hands between my own. “Rogue, I don’t know how to tell you this, but the chances this was just random are pretty much nil,” I say as I reach up and brush a tear off her cheek. She leans her face into my palm and takes a deep breath.

  “I think I knew that from the moment I first saw Ivy’s picture. Actually, I think part of me has had a sense of it for an extraordinarily long time. I’ve always been a bit of a nomad looking for something or someone that I couldn’t really find. There were times when I was little when I would collapse from pain and no one could determine the cause. Now, I wonder if I was having those phantom twin pains. If I had to guess, based on my childhood, I suspect Ivy has asthma or something like that wrong with her lungs. She must’ve completely trashed her ankle somewhere around the 10th grade. That sucker hurt for almost an entire year.”

  I’m blown away by Rogue’s composure. If I were in her shoes, I’m pretty sure I would be completely freaking out. “I’m impressed that this doesn’t seem to be fazing you much. I think if it were me, I’d be a blubbering idiot.”

  When Rogue hears my voice, she blinks as if she just remembered I was in the room. “What? Oh! Trust me, I’m having a multilayered response. Part of me is relieved. I’m just relieved that I haven’t been crazy my whole life. Depending on which specific second you ask me, I’m either totally jazzed or completely terrified to meet Ivy,” she says as she digs her cell phone out of her backpack.