The Duplicate

Chapter Twenty-four

Sounds fair enough. Breathing shallow, I give a nod. "Deal."

The elevator stops. The doors glide open. And Trip's arm snaps up, in an instant, aiming the pistol—I whip my head around—at nothing.

The hall is motionless.

Empty. Quiet.

"Floor Two."

Practically melting against the control panel, Dax moans. His hand splays over his chest. "For a second there... I really thought..."

"I don't think anyone is on the second floor," Trip says, lowering his pistol. He starts out. "But stay close. Just in case."

I follow, with Dax stumbling behind me. "You think they're on the first, though," I say, phrasing this as a statement. Not a question.

"If we're lucky there won't be many." Trip leads as if he knows where he's going—quick and certain, passing door after door, gold plate after gold plate.

To me, everything looks and feels and sounds surreal—a maze of lights and walls and voices of the occupants inside their apartments. Even the stale smell of the over-vacuumed carpet seems artificial. It's like a dream. The only thing keeping me grounded to reality is the suitcase stinging my fingers, the muscles burning in my arm. I'm not dreaming. This is real.

Trip halts at a door, so suddenly I have to throw a hand up against him to stop myself from smacking face-first into his back. Straightaway, a sting of questions race through my mind. But before I can utter a word, my eyes land on the long, rectangular window along the door Trip is peering into. There's a thin view of the stairwell on the other side.

"And, uh, Triple, what if we're not lucky?" Dax asks, close behind me.

Trip throws open the door, causing an echo to charge up and down the stairs. He steps into the stairwell. "I'll figure it out."

Dax expels a heavy, shaky breath, which doesn't help subdue the waves of panic pulsing through me. Turning my head, I find his fingers clasped, tight, around the straps of his backpack as he follows me into the stairwell. His face is pale.

"It's going to be okay, Dax." I'm surprised by how sure I sound. I start down the stairs after Trip, throwing glances over my shoulder. "Just relax."

"Yeah, yeah." Dax nods, quickly. "I know, I know. I just get a little antsy when my life is in peril, that's all."

His sense of humor is still intact. Good.

We reach the first floor of the stairwell, and my eyes flit between two doors. One leads to a hallway and the rest of the apartments. And the other—a fire exit. Surprise numbly pricks my mind. Following Trip towards the red light of the exit sign, I wonder fleetingly if he does know where he's going. If so, how? The other night, when he'd left me and Dax alone, did he go searching for exits? Did he prepare for this?

Mind whirling, I watch Trip approach the door, take a quick look through the meshed window. And then he is backing against the wall, throwing his arm out over my chest to drag me with him. With a big heave of air, Dax quickly follows suit and presses against the wall, as best he can with his backpack in the way.

"What? What is it?" Dax asks. "Is someone out there?"

After a swift scan of the area, Trip flicks his pistol towards a corner of the stairwell. "Stay over there."

Without hesitation, Dax and I slide down the wall, huddling into the corner.

A twitch of his shoulder. A breath. Trip looks over at us. "Don't move."