They were identical.

Same face, same voice, same house, same parents. One of them grew up to design hospitals. The other one grew up in a cell.

Nobody in the family ever explained the difference. Nobody said the word for what happened in their grandfather's cottage on Silver Lake, or which brother it happened to, or why the one who was left alone has spent thirty years unable to sleep past three-thirty in the morning.

Chance Macklin has a firm with fourteen people in it, a four-year-old daughter, and a wife he met in 1995 in a chatroom full of strangers, because her profile listed an activity almost nobody on earth would recognize.

Seth Macklin has a five-hundred-page notebook. He has written down every one of these years and rewritten each of them so they end differently. And he has become very good, in the way only a twin can be, at wearing someone else's life.

He knows his brother's voice. He knows the woman's name. He knows where she'll be on Saturday.

What happened in that house?
and which brother did it happen to?