Two hours later and a rolling cloud of steam broke out from the bathroom, announcing Patricia’s arrival. Linda had changed the sheet and blankets on her bed and sat upon it, the envy of Better Homes and Gardens and Perfect Posture Magazine. Until Patricia emerged from the steam, then Linda’s shoulders dropped and her jaw slacked.

Imagine a petite woman, blond hair tightly braided back, sharp, angular features, piercing blues eyes, and dressed in precise ways. Almost like a certain angel from a certain workspace show. That is what Linda looks like, and nothing at all what Patricia looks like. Except for that moment.

Patricia left the bathroom, dressed in brown shoes, opaque panty house, brown skirt, an ivory blouse, and a light blue cardigan to add a splash of color to the ensemble. Her blond hair, normally left free and curly, had been braided in the French style and was perfectly soothed back. Linda realized Patricia looked almost exactly like her, except for a little more body and a little more bounce. Which would prove useful later.

“Do you like it?” Patricia asked, twirling in a very un-Linda-like way. “I thought we would make the cutest twins or at least the closest besties!”

Linda pinched the bridge of her nose. “No.”

“C’mon,” Patricia wheedled.

“Absolutely not. You can not impersonate me.”

“Imitation is the best form of flattery! And this whole dour-secretary-look thing you’ve got going on is….”

Patricia hesitated, chewing on her bottom lip. Linda waited. She knew very well what her look was. It was binding, conservative, and allowed very little space for any sort of physical labor or movement in general. It was as tight as a Protestant church.

“It’s God-awful,” Patricia finished.

Linda allowed herself a point-five second smile. But this was quickly replaced by a horrified squeak when Patrica laid onto her back and began to work herself free of the pantyhose.

“How the hell do you stay in these all day? They’re killing my guts!” Patricia moaned.

Linda jumped up and ran from the bedroom before she saw anything too life-changing. “Just change fast. It will take us six hours to get to Vegas. I can’t drive in the dark.”

“Vegas?” Patricia shouted from the floor.

“Vegas,” Linda answered from the safety of the couch.

“Why Vegas?”

Linda listened as Patricia stumbled in the room, presumably changing into something more along the lines of her usual style. “Most logical.”

“I mean, I guess. But doesn’t it seem a bit . . . Obvious?” Patricia breezed out from Linda’s bedroom, dressed in leggings and an oversized shirt, with only a duffle bag slung over her shoulder.

“No.” Linda’s shoulder stiffened. She hated following Patricia.

“I mean, like I get it, Vegas is an easy place to launder the money, and it’s pretty close,” Patricia said, waiting in the stairwell while Linda locked her apartment door. “But, like, that’s a pretty rookie move, even the cops will think of that. And those guys didn’t seem like rookies.”

Linda locked the door, then plucked a strand of hair from her already receded hairline. Using her spit, she stuck the hair strand so that it went across the door-crack. Another safety device to alert her to any intruders.

Satisfied, she turned from the door and led the way down the narrow staircase to the back alley entrance to her second-floor apartment. The sun already seemed too high for Linda’s preference, and the air felt dusty from the heat. But it didn’t stop Patricia from talking.

“I mean, they had a whole system and everything down, it was almost like the whole heist was a routine. Except for the whole bra thing,” Patricia continued, falling into step beside Linda and veering towards her beat-up Caddy. “And . . . You. Did, Linda, did you know that guy who took your bra?”

“Wait.” Linda snapped Patricia’s keys from her hands, then spun around.

“No way,” Patricia muttered.

But yes way.