“Yeah, it’s a shame that… Wait.” Caitlyn’s stomach dropped as she realized the implication. “Are you suggesting that I do what she’s asking? Pretend to be her?”

  “You have to admit it would work. People used to mix you two up all the time. You have longer hair, but you could hide it with a headband or a scarf.”

  Caitlyn’s heart rate accelerated. “But it’s such a ridiculous idea. I mean, what if I get caught? I’d get in so much trouble. We both would.”

  “Caught how? If you think about it, how could they prove that you’re not Chloe?”

  Caitlyn rubbed her temples. She supposed that if she carried Chloe’s ID, anyone who checked would conclude that she worked at Pulaski. “But five whole days of pretending? I can’t just wing something like that. I’d have to learn everything about her job, her coworkers, the college—plus all of the little things like her computer password.” Just thinking about it was overwhelming.

  “You don’t have anything to do next week,” her mom said quietly.

  The words stung. Whatever Caitlyn might think of Chloe’s choices, the reality was that she had returned home to mooch off her mother. Guilt flooded her chest. I let her down.

  The front door opened, then closed. Chloe started up the stairs without acknowledging either of them.

  Pulse pounding, Caitlyn pushed her chair back and stood. “Chloe, wait. Come in here.”

  After a pause, footsteps descended the stairs. Chloe entered the kitchen with a wary gaze.

  Caitlyn took a deep breath. “I’ll do your job next week.”

  “Seriously?” Chloe’s eyes widened. “You really mean it?”

  “Yes.” Caitlyn gulped. Was she really doing this? “But I have conditions. I want the money you’ll earn for the week—I think that’s only fair—and I’ll use it to buy groceries and other things for the house while I’m staying here. I also want you to give me your driver’s license. You can use your passport to get on the plane.”

  “That sounds okay, doesn’t it, honey?” Her mom looked between them, eyes shining with hope.

  Caitlyn wasn’t finished. “And I want you to spend the rest of the weekend telling me every single detail about your job, no matter how irrelevant it might seem.”

  Chloe broke into a smile. “Of course! I’ll tell you everything. We can even look at photos online so you’ll recognize everyone.” She surprised Caitlyn with a fierce hug. “Thank you so much. You’re amazing.”

  As Caitlyn hugged her back, anxiety churned in her gut. Maybe it would all turn out okay, but getting through a week as Chloe would be hell on her nerves.

  Thank God for my Zoloft. Next week, she’d need every milligram.

  * * *

  Caitlyn stood in the center of her childhood bedroom, contemplating the boxes and bags that she’d hauled from her car. The sight of all her worldly possessions piled at her feet made her realize how little she’d accumulated in St. Louis. Her entire wardrobe fit in three bags, each containing a mix of well-worn outfits from high school, preppy basics she’d bought on her grad student budget, and pajamas with stains and holes.

  What she had was a lot of books. The stacks of compact boxes with labels like methodology represented the bulk of her spending aside from food and shelter. The only item related to a hobby was her guitar, ensconced in a hard-shell case with colorful stickers she’d applied back in college—the last time she’d had time to practice.

  “Knock knock.” Chloe appeared in the doorway, bearing her laptop. “Is that all you brought home?”

  “Yeah, this is everything. My furniture wasn’t worth the cost of transportation.”

  “You’re lucky, in a way.” Chloe gingerly stepped over boxes, making her way toward the bed. “I have so much stuff, there’s no hope of getting organized. Like, I can’t reach for my hairbrush without toppling a pile of accessories.”

  “I believe it.” Caitlyn could picture it perfectly, thanks to growing up across the hall from Chloe’s chaotic bedroom. “You know, Marie Kondo would not approve.”

  “Who?” Chloe tilted her head.

  “Oh, she’s an expert on home organization. You’re supposed to ask yourself whether an item sparks joy—and if not, you get rid of it.”

  “I see.” Chloe tapped a box labeled political sociology with her bare foot. “So do these books spark joy?”

  “Um.” Caitlyn could imagine joy—clutching her phone to her chest after receiving a job offer, glowing with satisfaction that her struggle had been worth it. Maybe next year. “You came to show me some things about your job?”

  “Yes.” Chloe opened her laptop. “While you were getting settled, I made you a PowerPoint presentation.”

  “Really?” Caitlyn sat next to Chloe on the bed.

  “Of course. I’ve got some computer skills.” Chloe angled the laptop toward Caitlyn.

  A map of the Pulaski College campus filled the screen. One of the buildings was circled in red with a text box reading Dictator’s lair along with a devil emoji.

  “Uh, what’s that?”

  “That’s the president’s office. Which brings me to the next slide.” Chloe tapped the arrow key. “Say hello to Ruth Holloway.”

  Under the heading BOSS was a portrait of a woman with short, blonde hair and striking blue eyes, so vibrant they must have been digitally enhanced. With her arms crossed in her navy blazer and her chin raised, she appeared defiant, as though daring the viewer to challenge her authority. Instead of the amiable smile most college administrators wore in official photos, Ruth’s lips curved into the slightest hint of regal satisfaction.

  “Um. Wow.” Caitlyn couldn’t stop staring. “She looks…” Smoking hot. “Intense.”

  “That’s a nice euphemism.” Chloe smirked. “You mean she looks bitchy.”

  As a feminist, Caitlyn didn’t use the word bitchy. Besides, it was inadequate. Ruth Holloway looked sharp and powerful, like every no-nonsense teacher or professor who had turned Caitlyn’s guts to mush during her many years of school. Caitlyn searched Ruth’s oval face. She looked young for a president, about forty, but it was hard to guess from an official portrait—some combination of foundation and Photoshop had smoothed away pores and any fine lines she may have had. “So what is she like?”

  “Let’s see. She’s always making these exasperated sighs that I can hear from my desk.” Chloe made a huffy sigh and rolled her eyes, apparently mimicking Ruth. “She thinks she’s smarter than everyone around her, and she doesn’t bother to hide it.”

  “Charming.” Caitlyn’s attraction wilted. Ruth sounded like one of those arrogant academics who belittled others to boost her own status. I’ll feel right at home.

  “But sometimes that’s a good thing,” Chloe said. “Ruth doesn’t trust me to do very much, which makes my life easier.”

  “I suppose that’s good for me.” Caitlyn studied the woman for another moment before ripping her gaze away. “What’s next?”

  Chloe tapped the computer, revealing a bulleted list. “I typed up everything you’ll need to know, like my login and password, and how to handle requests.”

  “Requests?”

  “Yeah, meeting requests. People are always trying to get on Ruth’s calendar. They’ll email you because they’re afraid to ask Ruth directly, but you’re supposed to forward the requests to her. She’ll respond and let you know what to do. Usually, she just writes No. Then you write back to the person and say, you know, unfortunately, Ruth isn’t available. Something like that.”

  “So she doesn’t meet with anyone?” How could Ruth run a college without holding meetings?

  “Oh, she does. She meets with her friend Piper all the time and the senior staff. Here, I grabbed their photos from the website.” She flipped to a slide with eight headshots. “If you memorize their names, you’ll be fine.”

  “That’s it? You must know more people than that.”

  “Not really. Sometimes faculty stop by the office, so I put some of their pictures on the next slide—the ones who come most often. But you won’t need to remember their names. Just tell them Ruth can’t talk because she’s in a meeting.” Chloe grinned. “See? I told you it would be easy.”

  “Easy,” Caitlyn echoed. The job itself sounded simple, assuming Chloe’s account was accurate. However, Caitlyn had the impression that tolerating Ruth Holloway for five days might be the hardest part of all.

  Chapter 2

  Caitlyn fiddled with the bun that hid the true length of her chestnut-brown hair. I should have cut it.

  At home in the bathroom, Caitlyn had thought she’d done enough to copy Chloe’s style. Now, standing before the imposing building that housed the Pulaski administrative offices, doubt nagged at her.

  A pair of Chloe’s false lashes weighed down her eyelids. Caitlyn had even borrowed her sister’s snug charcoal skirt and low-cut pink blouse, although she drew the line at the impractical high heels Chloe wore to the office. If anyone asked, her comfy flats were due to rapid-onset plantar fasciitis.

  Aside from the frumpy shoes and unflattering hairstyle, she looked like Chloe. Didn’t she? Growing up, they’d been mistaken for each other more times than she could count. Most people didn’t notice the slight differences in their bodies and faces.

  Her heart pounded as she pushed through the heavy door. In her head, she chanted reminders in an effort to calm herself down. We’re twins. We’re identical. It’s fine.

  A custodian nodded at her. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning.” Caitlyn forced a smile as she strode past his trash bin.

  The hallway was quiet, just as she’d hoped. Arriving an hour early had been the right call. No one saw her gaze dart around as she searched for the correct hallway, and while she could only imagine how her face looked—pale and terrified?—she was grateful to be alone.

  Tall glass doors loomed at the end of the hall, matching Chloe’s description. A sign reading Office of the President hung from the ceiling, removing all doubt that she was headed in the right direction. Instead of reassuring her, the sight made her nauseous. This wasn’t some obscure clerical role; Chloe’s boss ran the entire institution. If Caitlyn was caught intruding, the penalty would be high.

  As she reached the doors, she peered through the glass. A sleek wooden desk occupied the center of a spacious reception area. Chloe’s desk. Could she really sit there for an entire week without anyone catching on?

  Caitlyn dug in her purse until she closed her fingers around her key chain, now equipped with a stainless-steel key to the presidential office suite. As she held it up to the lock, her hand shook so badly that she missed the keyhole by half an inch.

  This is a crime. Caitlyn Taylor had no right to enter the office. If she unlocked the door and walked in, she’d be trespassing. The badge dangling from her collar constituted identity fraud. Somehow, she’d made it through the weekend without backing out, but now the risk had become real.

  Her lungs tightened until it was hard to breathe—a sensation she might have interpreted as cardiac arrest if she hadn’t spent a lifetime experiencing it every time she risked getting into trouble.

  It was the same feeling she’d had when her college roommate had persuaded her to try marijuana at a party. Afterward, while Shannon snored in the next room, Caitlyn had stayed up googling criminal penalties and researching how long the drug could be detected in urine and hair.

  She’d had the same feeling in grad school after deducting bogus “school supplies” from her taxes until her burden no longer exceeded her bank balance. As the envelope with her tax return had slipped from her grasp, she’d jammed her fingers into the mail slot, hyperventilating as she desperately tried to retrieve it. But the steel box was secure, condemning her to months of worry that a SWAT team would descend on her apartment to haul her to jail over six hundred dollars.

  Every time she broke the rules, she regretted it. So what the hell am I doing?

  I can’t do this. Caitlyn dropped the unused key into her purse. Her breathing slowed as her panic waned. Soon she would be safe in her car, driving away from the world’s worst decision at forty-five miles per hour.

  Footsteps sounded in the hallway, causing her to jump and whirl around.

  A tall blonde strode toward her, wearing a teal blazer with beige pants and functional brown loafers. Ruth Holloway. Her short, layered hair had grown since the photo portrait, and the waves were mussed. She also wore considerably less makeup. However, her blue eyes were even more vivid in person, the color popping even from several yards away.

  As Ruth approached, she squinted at Caitlyn. “Who are you, and what have you done with Chloe?”

  Oh God. “I…um…” Caitlyn trembled.

  Ruth stopped a few feet away. “You’ve never arrived even one minute before nine, and now you’re showing up at eight? On a Monday, no less. I should alert the Gazette.”

  Relief washed through Caitlyn, full-on meltdown averted. But now she was trapped. “I had an early appointment.” Her voice cracked.

  “I see.” Ruth’s forehead creased beneath errant wisps of hair.

  Shit. Caitlyn was already fucking up. Chloe would never schedule an early appointment. She’d been last out of the womb and late to every engagement ever since.

  “Are you all right?” Ruth studied her. “You look flustered.”

  Caitlyn flushed under the scrutiny. Chloe had described Ruth as so indifferent toward her that she wouldn’t notice if someone literally replaced her for a week. But the concern in Ruth’s gaze appeared genuine.

  “I’m fine.” Caitlyn took a breath. “Thank you for asking.”

  “Good.” Ruth continued to stare.

  Caitlyn dropped her gaze to break eye contact, only to be confronted with the sleek curve of Ruth’s neck and the silky white blouse that drooped to bare a hint of cleavage. Ruth’s clothes fit, but they weren’t tailored, as though she’d grabbed her usual size at a department store and decided good enough. Still, the functional outfit couldn’t hide Ruth’s hourglass curves. Ruth was gorgeous and powerful with obvious intelligence behind her probing gaze. Caitlyn struggled to control her breathing as the vision in front of her, combined with the high-stress situation, overloaded her brain.

  “Well?” Ruth gestured at the door. Her clear nail polish gleamed under the florescent lights.

  “Right. Of course.” Caitlyn fumbled for the key. Avoiding eye contact, she unlocked the door and held it open.

  As Ruth whisked past her, Caitlyn detected the faint scent of lavender. It didn’t smell like perfume. More like soap or shampoo. Ruth probably didn’t bother with fragrance. She had the clean, polished look of a professional who maintained impeccable grooming with as little effort as possible. Minimal makeup, sturdy shoes.

  Oblivious to Caitlyn’s staring, Ruth disappeared into her office, leaving the door ajar—probably so she could yell to summon Caitlyn, a habit Chloe had warned her about.

  This was her chance to run, to let Ruth think Chloe had arrived early and then split for good. But despite her wobbly stomach and rapid heartbeat, something drew her forward until she stood beside the assistant’s desk.

  She wanted to know more about Ruth.

  The portrait hadn’t lied. Ruth was young for a president, with intense and captivating eyes. How had she achieved so much at her age? Especially if she was as unpleasant as Chloe claimed.

  Caitlyn was curious. Yet the brief encounter had driven home the point that she was deceiving a human being who would no doubt be horrified to learn the truth. Whatever Ruth’s flaws, she didn’t deserve to spend her day working with a fraud.

  And she’d hang me if she knew. Meeting Ruth in person had left little doubt that she’d be livid if she found out the truth.

  “Chloe?” Ruth appeared in the doorway. Her hair had been tamed into place. “Jack is stopping by at nine for a quick meeting. I assumed you’d still be arriving. But since you’re already here, I’d like you to take notes.”

  “Oh sure. Absolutely.” Caitlyn’s head bobbed while she searched her memory for the name. Jack Downey, Budget Director. Chloe’s presentation had included a photo of an Irish man in his mid-fifties, along with a note that he met with Ruth regularly. It had to be him.

  “Thanks. See you soon.” Ruth disappeared into the office again.

  Caitlyn gulped. How could she leave now? If she wanted to avoid suspicion, disappearing before the meeting wasn’t an option.

  Jolted out of her indecision, Caitlyn plopped into the swivel chair. She located the power button and started the computer on the desk. As it whirred to life, she caught her reflection in a small mirror that Chloe had left on the desk, next to a slouching makeup bag. Aside from the headband, she looked like Chloe.

  Holy fuck. I’m really doing this.

  * * *

  Something is wrong with Chloe.

  The thought had nagged at Ruth ever since she’d arrived. Now seated across from Chloe at the table in her office while Jack prattled on about the budget, Ruth grew even more suspicious.

  What Chloe lacked in ambition, she made up for by being predictable. She usually arrived five minutes late, checked the voice messages, and then spent most of the day on her iPhone. As a receptionist, she was decent—personable, nice to everyone—but rarely lifted a finger outside of her assigned duties. Her notes were adequate, but minimal.

  This morning, however, Chloe’s typing was rapid, almost frantic. When she wasn’t taking notes, her gaze shifted between Ruth and Jack as if she weren’t sure which one would strike first. She also kept scratching her arms. It was unnerving.

  Then there was her appearance. Chloe typically styled her hair in ringlets, crisp from a curling iron and frozen with hair spray. Today, she wore a cloth headband at her hairline, and the rest was knotted into a bun. Ruth wondered if the conservative hairstyle and skittish demeanor were related to Chloe’s early arrival on campus and the supposed appointment she’d mentioned.