If I didn't already know, if the rhythm of her words weren't wrong, if I hadn't already noticed the different shade of her hair or how she dresses, that alone would be enough to tell me she's not Amber.

Amber wouldn't fucking say she was sorry. Amber was never fucking sorry, not to me.

"Yes," I say again, though it sounds far away to me. I'm away, in the same distant way, that I need to pull myself together and at least try to pretend to be vaguely normal. Even that idea seems like it belongs to someone else, though, and I can't seem to do anything but watch her, wary and bewildered. I consider explaining, and then I blurt it out before I can think better of it. "You're not — you look like my sister."