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My Twin the Murderer by Lindsay Kent

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My Twin the Murderer

Neuroscientist Evelyn Malcolm has built her life on reason. She believes in clean data, repeatable results, and the comforting illusion that the mind can be mapped, measured, and controlled. As a rising star in her field, she has spent years keeping emotion at arm’s length—especially the messier parts of herself—convinced that clarity and discipline are the only defenses against chaos. But when the man she has secretly loved is found dead, Evelyn’s carefully constructed world collapses.

Now a prime suspect in his murder, she’s forced back into the orbit of her estranged twin sister, Vivian—a volatile mystery writer and recovering addict whose life has been defined by impulse, instability, and excess. When the twin’s DNA is discovered at the crime scene, the case fractures into something far more disturbing. Two sisters. One victim. Matching genetic fingerprints. And no clear explanation for what really happened.

Their stories don’t align. Their memories contradict each other. Each sister insists she’s telling the truth—but truth, it turns out, is a slippery thing when trauma, resentment, and decades of buried history lie just beneath the surface. Assigned to the case is Detective Ed Schott, a relentless investigator whose own unresolved demons fuel his obsession with uncovering the truth. As pressure mounts, Schott becomes convinced that the answers lie not just in evidence, but in the dark psychological terrain the sisters share.

Then, the investigation takes a terrifying turn. Evelyn and Vivian are abducted from the precinct and thrust into a disorienting, kaleidoscopic world of experimental psychedelics, buried memories, and whispered government research that blurs the line between science and manipulation. As the sisters are pushed beyond their limits, Evelyn is forced to confront everything she has spent her life denying: the unreliability of memory, the fragility of identity, and the terrifying possibility that the mind is not a neutral observer, but an active participant in its own deception.

Haunted by gaps in her recollection and flashes of experiences she can’t fully access, Evelyn begins to question the very foundations of her work—and herself. Was she manipulated? Did she suppress something unspeakable? Or is the truth even more unsettling? As science and delusion bleed into one another, Evelyn realizes that clearing her name may require the one thing she has always avoided: trusting her sister.

To survive—and to stop a looming catastrophe—Evelyn must reconcile with the twin she has spent years rejecting, navigating the thin line between empathy and betrayal. The deeper she goes, the more unbearable the central question becomes: What if the real monster is the one wearing her face?
Propulsive, hallucinatory, and darkly funny, My Twin the Murderer is a mind-bending psychological thriller that explores identity, sisterhood, and the hidden costs of believing we are fully in control of our own minds—right up until the final, devastating revelation.

To purchase your copy of My Twin the Murderer, click any of the following links: Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Apple Books.

Read an Excerpt of My Twin the Murderer:

The door to the conference room bursts open. Three men step inside: two in uniform, the third, much older, in a dark brown suit.

I press my palm to my forehead and glance down, half-expecting to find myself standing in my underwear.

“Evelyn Malcolm?” The plain-clothed man strides over to me, flashing a badge. His voice is low and gravelly, his breath thick with cigarette smoke. Saliva floods my mouth, my belly burning.

“Yes? What is this—”

“It’s Eleanor,” Augustus corrects.

The man’s hand clamps down on my arm. “I’m Detective Schott. You’re under arrest on suspicion of murder.”

“What?” The room tilts. The pages in my hand blur. The board members stare, frozen in time, their expressions a perfect gradient of shock and disgust.

I open my mouth to speak—

And splat.

To everyone’s horror, my morning coffee makes a grand reappearance, splattering across the pristine conference table like a Rorschach test from hell.

“Sorry, I’m so sorry!” My hands flail, searching for a napkin, a towel, anything—

But the detective is already pulling me to the door. “Glad that happened now,” he mutters. “Just had my squad car detailed.”

* * *

My heartbeat thunders in my ears as I’m led through the Pharmakon building. People speak to each other in hushed tones as I walk by, their faces a blur of concern and curiosity.

“You have the right to remain silent.” The officer’s voice warps, distant and hollow.

My knees buckle and I fall twice before I’m led outside, where I’m greeted by the heavy, monochrome slab of San Francisco’s summer sky.

Murder. I’m being detained for someone’s murder. Which means she’s finally done it.

In the back of the squad car I close my eyes, trying to make sense of the jumbled thoughts racing through my brain. If they ask me to testify on behalf of her character, would I tell the truth? What will happen to her once she’s convicted? I sink back into the bucket seat, shivering. Even after I claim my innocence, will it make a difference to Pharmakon?

I take a deep breath and shift my mind out of its abysmal loop the best I can,peering out at the blur of the city. I tap quietly on the window, keeping a tally of the pedestrians as we pass. I have to channel all my energy into what comes next—clearing up this case of mistaken identity.

In what feels like a blink we arrive. Detective Schott guides me by the arm toward the steep concrete steps of the precinct. The rancid stench of this part of the city assaults my senses: salty air, weed, human waste. Ahead, a homeless woman balances atop a mountain of garbage, swaying gently as she hums a tune only she seems to know. Her eyes catch mine, and her face shifts into cheerful exuberance.

“HIYEEEEE!” She shrieks, throwing a frantic wave in my direction. A grin so wide it stretches past the borders of her toothless mouth. “Is it time?” she asks, clapping wildly.

Squinting, I take in the deep crevasses in her cinnamon skin, the flicker in her gaze, some erratic rhythm playing behind her pupils. A whole life in there, I think. Once bright, full of potential. Now a crumpled-up scrap, tossed to the curb. Another story lost to the thirst—one more sip, one more smoke, one more needle in the vein.

Despite myself, I picture her face again. The years of terrible mistakes, arrests, betrayals. Brought on by the same insatiable desire. And yet, I’m the one in handcuffs.

“Ha,” I say under my breath. Schott tightens his grip on my arm.

Schott and the uniformed officers lead me through the buzzing precinct, weaving in between desks with ringing phones and crackheads cuffed to chairs with foaming grins. They take me down a busy corridor to an interrogation room.

The door swings open, and a strangled gasp catches in my throat.

Her back is to me, hands clenched tightly behind her head, clearly toying with the two young officers seated at the table—her mind games already in full swing.

“It’s all very simple. So simple it’s almost insulting. I’m a threat to your bloated, bureaucratic excuse for an institution. Hell, I’ve cracked more cases than half the stiffs in this precinct combined, but because I lack a shiny badge and a government-issued sidearm, you’ve got to keep me dancing. Throwing out half-assed

threats, bringing me in here under bogus pretenses. Squeezing me for intel like some two-bit snitch, all so you can slap your name on my hard-earned work. Classic. I bet Sherlock had to wade through this bullshit all the live-long day.”

She follows the officers’ gaze and turns around, then points a finger at me like a gun. “Hey, I know you.” She winks. “What took you so long?”

The curtain of coiffed, bright red hair, neck tattoos, and way too much eye makeup doesn’t hide a damn thing. That’s my face staring back at me.

It’s Vivian. My identical twin.

My Twin the Murderer Author Lindsay Kent

Lindsay Kent, aka The Hallucinarrator, is a filmmaker and psychedelic historian whose work explores the intersection of storytelling, consciousness, and psychological transformation. Her work spans decades, from global feature films and streaming series to campaigns for nonprofits and Fortune 500s. Her 2016 cult documentary Going Furthur retraced the electric pulse of America’s counterculture, while Plant Medicine dives deep into the visionary heart of an Ayahuasca retreat center in Costa Rica.

With years of research into the cultural and emotional impact of altered states, she brings a rare combination of narrative craft and intellectual depth to the thriller genre. Her writing bridges art and awakening—using fiction as a way to make complex inner experiences accessible, human, and emotionally grounded. My Twin the Murderer is her debut novel. She lives in Half Moon Bay, California, with her husband Jim and their four-legged comic relief, Bodhi. Her twin lives five minutes away—and so, in a very real sense, so does she.

To learn more about Lindsay, click any of the following links: Website, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram & TikTok