She sped along, thinking of her parents, John and Vilna Connelly, proprietors of the Connelly Insurance Agency, in Vineland, New Jersey. They’d lived a small, quiet life, taking good care of her, giving her the requisite pink bedroom in their split-level, sending her to the local public school, and making sure she had all the right lessons, but she never loved them. She didn’t feel connected to them at all, probably because she knew inside that she wasn’t.

She had grown up feeling apart from them, even before she ever heard the word “adoption.” She knew she didn’t look like them; she was blond and they were both dark-haired, and she surpassed them in height as early as middle school. The biggest difference was temperament; she was big, loud, and wanted everything, and they were small, meek, and wanted nothing. But every time she had asked them if she was adopted, they’d denied it, and even now, she wasn’t angry that they lied, just that they were so bad at it. And when they’d died together a few years ago, in a car accident with a drunk driver, she went to their funeral and could barely squeeze out a tear.

She reached into the messenger bag, fumbled around for a Kleenex, spit on it, and wiped off her makeup. Then she lowered the window to ruin her blow-dry, and by the time she got to Philly, her hair was as curly as Bennie’s. She steered into her exclusive neighborhood in Fairmount, near her beloved Schuylkill River. The houses were colonial with painted shutters, and BMWs and SUVs lined the street. She pulled into a parking space, twisted on the interior light, and smiled at the reflection in the rearview mirror. She looked exactly like Bennie, at least from the neck up.

“Hi, I’m Bennie Rosato,” she said, practicing in the quiet car. “Pleased to meet you, I’m Bennie. Bennie Rosato.”

She cut the ignition, grabbed her cloth bag and Bennie’s messenger bag, got out of the car, and chirped it locked. Two men walked past her, talking, and she kept her head down. She hoped she didn’t run into any of Bennie’s neighbors because her twin never dressed this good. She reached Bennie’s house, a three-story brick rowhouse with shiny black shutters, climbed the front steps, and picked the key that said Schlage as the house key. It slid easily into the lock, and she opened the front door, went in, and let it close behind her. She felt for a light switch, flipped it on, and stopped dead. She had forgotten one thing. Bennie had a big dog.

She stiffened as the dog lifted its head from its paws, got to his feet, and walked slowly toward her. His toenails clicked on the hardwood floor. His head hung low. His tail wasn’t wagging, and he didn’t look happy. The dog knew she wasn’t Bennie, no matter what she looked like.

And in the next second, he started to growl.

Mary DiNunzio was supposed to go down the shore for the weekend, but she was dying to meet her mysterious cousin, a widow named Fiorella Bucatina, in visiting from Italy. Everybody had crowded into her parents’ kitchen, stuffing it like a Marx Brothers stateroom, if the Marx Brothers were Italian-American. No matter how many people came over for dinner, her parents never ate in the dining room, which was reserved for Christmas, Easter, or some other occasion when something really good happened to Jesus Christ.

The kitchen was humid because Mary’s parents didn’t believe in air conditioners, microwaves, or anything invented after the demise of the Latin Mass. An ancient coffeepot percolated on the stove near photographs of the Holy Trinity-Sinatra, JFK, and Pope John-and a cast-iron switchplate held laminated Mass cards and split fronds of palm. The DiNunzios owned the Kitchen That Time Forgot, and Mary wouldn’t have it any other way.

Fresh basil, frying meatballs, and locatelli scented the air, and Tony Bennett was on the radio, but nobody could hear him because they were talking over each other. Mary’s father, Mariano “Matty” DiNunzio, hadn’t gotten a new battery for his hearing aid, so he was shouting about the Phillies with her boyfriend Anthony. Her mother Vita stood at the oven in her flowered housedress, stirring a dented pot of bubbling gravy and gesturing with her wooden spoon at Mary’s best friend, Judy Carrier. Judy had long ago become an honorary DiNunzio, despite her white-blond hair, Delft blue eyes, and upturned nose, though she always joked that they kept her around because she could reach the top shelf.

Suddenly there was a noise, and everybody turned at the sound of footsteps coming downstairs. Mary couldn’t help but feel a tingle of anticipation. “Ma,” she said, “is that Fiorella, queen of the witches?”

“Basta!” Her mother’s brown eyes flared behind her thick trifocals. “No make fun. Donna Fiorella, she has a strong powers, she’s a mos’ powerful strega in Abruzzi!”

“Not stronger than you, Ma.” Mary didn’t like her mother thinking that her superpowers were inferior.

“Sì, sì, yes. Her husband, he had the cancer. Donna Fiorella, she made it go away, pffft!”

“But he died, didn’t he?”

“Sì, a truck, it hit him.”

“VEET, I’M SO HUNGRY!” her father shouted, his hearing aid a plastic parenthesis behind his ear. He was dressed for the special occasion in his white short-sleeved shirt and baggy dark trousers. “WHY’S SHE TAKIN’ SO LONG?”

“Shhhh, Matty!” her mother said, brandishing her spoon like a lethal weapon.

“I’ve never met a witch queen,” Judy whispered.

“SHE’S NOT A WITCH QUEEN,” Mary and her father replied in unison, but only one of them was loud enough to be heard. A union tilesetter his working life, her father didn’t share her mother’s folkloric beliefs, but he loved her enough to tolerate them. Together a billion years, Mary’s parents were the Chang and Eng of married couples.

“Think she’ll look like Strega Nonna?” Judy asked. “A little old lady in orthopedic shoes?”

“No doubt.” Mary smiled. “I wish Bennie were here. She should see a little DiNunzio magic. Maybe if I had a witch in my corner, it would help me make partner.”

Judy laughed. “She’s probably still at work. Why don’t we call her? She might like a nice home-cooked meal.”

“Nah, she’s too busy. She wouldn’t want to come.”

“Maria, shhh!” her mother hissed. She’d had her hair done at the corner beauty parlor, where they teased it into a stormcloud to cover her bald spot. She patted it into place as Fiorella Bucatina appeared in the doorway and struck a pose.

The sight of her silenced all the chatter.

Bennie stopped pounding on the lid, her chest heaving. Her cheeks burned, blood rich. Her heart hammered. Heat thickened the air. Her fists stung, her arms ached. Sweat drenched her, gluing her shirt to her body. Panic lurked beneath the surface of her consciousness, like an undertow. Why would Alice do this to her?

Bennie wracked her brain, thinking back. She’d believed she was an only child until Alice had called from prison a few years ago, saying she was charged with murder and needed a lawyer. Bennie would never forget seeing her for the first time, over a filthy counter in a no-contact interview room. Alice had on an orange jumpsuit, and her hair was short then, scissored into crude layers and dyed a brassy red. Still, Bennie had taken one look at her and had seen a mirror image. She’d been struck dumb, but Alice had spoken with confidence, words that marked a turning point in Bennie’s life.

Pleased to meet you. I’m your twin.

Bennie had proved that Alice wasn’t guilty in court, but it had been harder to prove that Alice was really her twin. Her mother, Carmela Rosato, was the only parent Bennie had ever known, but by the time Alice surfaced, her mother’s depression had worsened to the point that she’d been hospitalized, comatose and unable to speak. Bennie never met her father, one William Winslow, who hadn’t stayed around long enough to marry her mother, and she’d had to track him down to verify Alice’s story. It had turned out to be true. Their mother had given birth to two babies but kept only one, because she was broke and battling depression, so she’d kept Bennie and put Alice up for adoption. So to Bennie, Alice was a complete and total stranger, who just happened to be family.