Archive of Our Own

It was her shoes.

No-one has ever been able to understand, much less explain, just why in the world they’d be interested in someone’s shoes firsthand.

But that, and only that, was precisely how anyone knew it was Chantal they were looking at.

It made you wonder if there was a conspiracy to all this.

When they asked you if you could identify who it was lying on the cold asphalt, you didn’t even need to think. Didn’t even bat an eyelash, didn’t even need second glances.

“Chantal.”

The name left your lips to spiral into a cloud, fogging your vision only slightly before it dissipated.

You couldn’t tell if it went away on its own, or if the two figures in front of you actually pierced through the fog of breath with their gazes.

It wasn’t like they’d believe you, even if you’d given them your honest answer.

And you couldn’t blame them.

After all, whoever in the world could trust someone who was quick to identify a dead body, but didn’t even need to see anything above the feet?

Or more precisely, the shoes.

But you were certain you weren’t the only one on the top of their suspect list.

×××

Word of Chantal’s death spread like wildfire.

All of a sudden everyone was talking about it — the men, the women, the children. It was the talk of the town: literally.

Blocks was a small town. You knew everyone and everyone knew you.

Likewise, Chantal knew everyone and everyone knew Chantal.

You were similar to Chantal in so many ways — except the shoes, of course.

They’d confiscated all her shoes for further investigation. Along with everything else they found useful — you included.

As the sun fell to the side of the road, so did your thoughts.

But you couldn’t stop wondering if this was the perk of being Chantal’s twin.

×××

People could be made for many things, but most definitely not to tell.

At this point you couldn’t even tell if they were the ones investigating you, or if it was the other way round.

Rather, they showed.

You watched their gazes drop to the edge of their desk, watched them run tired hands through their hair, across their foreheads; heard the sigh in their exhales, though they tried to keep the sounds ever so subtle; sensed the tension even before they did, saw the hint of frustration in their eyes.

Chantal and her shoes were going nowhere.

And even you sitting across them didn’t help.

You didn’t even need them to tell you to know that they’d probably interrogated the entire town, or probably even set up invisible parameters around Blocks. And if the entire town couldn’t reveal anything more than what they knew about Chantal, then neither could you, despite being Chantal’s twin.

Ironic how sometimes you couldn’t even comprehend Chantal like a neighbor could.

Even funnier how the police thought they could gain anything from interrogating you.

“She’s the last one,” a uniformed redhead groaned. “Better wrap it up soon.”

“Sure,” the uniformed blond next to him responded. “Now,” she leaned a little more towards you, “tell me about yourself.”

You weren’t sure where to start. “I’m Chantal’s twin, Constance.” Then you stopped, looking at the two officers uncertainly.

The blond nodded, signaling for you to go on.

“Well…we’ve been inseparable. Like…really close. But sometimes I couldn’t exactly get her…Chantal, I mean.” You suddenly felt the need to fiddle with your fingers; the officers’ gazes were bordering on intrusive. “We work at different places, but there’s a route we’d always take together before splitting up.”

“And where do you split up?”

“Uh…the fork in the road…at King’s and St. Michael’s.”

They frowned.

You knew it had nothing to do with you, so you kept going. “You called me in at…around 10AM, right?” They nodded. “So, yeah, that was when we’d be going our separate ways. Then…I don’t know, because that’s all I remember.” It was the truth; your mind was already feeling fuzzy at this point, and if you tried to recall anything else, you’d probably just get stuck.

Silence.

But not the sort of silence you get when you’ve truly finished something.

It was that sort of silence where you felt something had dropped out of the picture. And not just anything — something important. Very important.

You thought they wanted you to keep trying, and you felt the obligation to, so you did; but when it felt like too much on your poor brain, you refocused your gaze on them.

And that was when you knew something was wrong.

They were looking at you, incredulity written on their faces.

“What?” You swallowed. Your throat felt dry. “What is it?”

“Constance…” the redhead spoke, his voice a tad bit tentative, as if he were about to make that final dent in the cracked glass that looked nothing short of a spiderweb and not dishing out clarity, “…your twin Chantal was found dead…on a Sunday.”

×××

Sunday…

Light pricked at the darkness behind your eyelids.

With a groan, you pried your own eyes open as your legs dangled over the side of the bed.

The moment your feet came into contact with the floor, they recoiled almost immediately.

Cold.

A choice word was making its way to the tip of your tongue; but before you could even think of that, a shock of pain tore through your head as soon as the cold shot through.

And with a scream, you hit the floor with a crude thump.

You couldn’t recall it being this cold this time of the year, but…

The shrieking in your bones dimmed as you slowly realized something.

It wasn’t cold anymore.

“What the fuck…” Finally letting yourself vent, you swore exasperatedly under your breath as you staggered to your feet.

Such pain…and Sundays. Wait…Sundays?— Ah, that brought you back.

You were having a conversation with two investigators — no, scratch that, you were being interrogated.

Then what happened after that?

It took your muddled brain a long while before things finally came back to you.

The redhead had been talking about Sunday; more precisely, about how Chantal had been found dead on a Sunday.

Sunday.

That was where it was wrong.

Who the hell works on Sundays?

It could be anyone, but definitely not Chantal.

Working on Sundays was so wrong for Chantal: you’d see her lounging in the bedroom, reading the newest book, listening to music from the 80s, perhaps even cleaning the house if she was in an exceptionally good mood — but never going to work.

One thing was constant, though: you’d always catch her polishing at least one of the many pairs of shoes she owned.

Well, you couldn’t mention Chantal without leaving her shoes out, could you?

But then, what happened on that very Sunday, the Sunday when they found her dead?

That was where things were wrong for a second time.

For some reason your memories just couldn’t click; no matter how hard you tried to recall, even to the point where you were absolutely desperate — nothing came to you.

Absolutely nothing. Nothing at all.

You couldn’t even remember what you were doing on that fated Sunday.

Then your brain shut down. Fast, unprecedented, like a CPU that had been overworking for way too long and was starting to sizzle smoke from the top.

And here you were.

Apparently the investigators were nice enough to give you a lift home, although you suspected that they did that just to steer clear of any further complications they couldn’t handle.

Even now, as you dragged yourself downstairs to fetch yourself a glass of water, it felt like you were walking on air — you felt extremely lightheaded, your feet like they were hovering a few inches above the floor, the sensation of your bare skin touching the ground seeming to come from far, far away.

The click of the faucet brought you partly back to reality.

Absentmindedly, you watched as clear water filled the glass. Absentmindedly still, you raised the glass to your lips and took the first sip —

It shattered.

The sound of delicate glass shattering into a million pieces on the floor, some of the fragments biting into your skin.

But you couldn’t care less.

Paying no mind to the puddle on the floor, now slightly stained red, you stepped closer to the bathroom.

And there they were.

A pair of black leather boots.

It could have been anyone’s black leather boots — even someone who was quite out of their mind like you knew.

But this wasn’t just anyone’s black leather boots.

“Chantal.”

The name left your lips in a breathless gasp, way before you could even think of looking up.

When at long last you decided to bring your gaze upwards, the indescribably gripping sensation only tightened around your heart like a vise.

Your heart was already in your throat, choking you even further as it started pounding frenetically.

You locked eyes with the figure, and your pupils constricted.

It was her.

Chantal.