The Duplicate

Chapter Five

"You'd be doing me a huge favor," I say quickly, flashing another smile, though I don't know how good it looks, being that I am exhausted. "I'd be indebted to you."

Indebted.

I can see Corey's ears perk up at the word. His gaze dips momentarily below the neckline of my coat, across my sweater underneath. And I don't want to know what kind of images zip through his mind as he thinks of what favors I may do for him in return.

I make a mental note to never come up to the third floor. Ever again.

"Well," he says, "I may be able to make an exception this time."

Relief washes through me. I let out a sigh, pushing it a little more on the dramatic side. "Thank you so much. Really. You don't know how much I appreciate this."

"No problem." Corey's smile beams now. His eyes continue to flicker over me. "So, whose file is it you need?"

I reach into my back pocket and pull out the slip of paper Trip gave me in the car. "I have an identification number," I say, handing it to Corey. "All I need is a print-out of the file from the Emulation Database."

"You don't know the name?"

I hesitate. "Well, not exactly. It's a long story."

Corey raises a curious eyebrow but asks nothing else. He goes on to type on the glass keyboard set in front of him. Each key he presses lights up bright green under his fingers. "All... right," he muses. "Let me just get to the Database—here it is." He looks down at the slip of paper and types in the identification number without looking at the keyboard as if he's some kind of pro.

I refrain from rolling my eyes.

"Annnd..." He pounds the enter key. Then he frowns at the screen.

I pause, staring at him. "What? What is it?"

"Let me try it again." His face reddens as he goes about typing in the identification number again, this time slowly and while looking at the keyboard.

Mentally, I sigh. That's what he gets for trying to show off.

He slams his finger down on the enter key again. But the frown doesn't leave his face.

"Are you sure you have the right identification number?" he asks.

"Yes." Trip wrote down his own identification number. "It's definitely right."

"Well, it says there is no file for this number."

My heart gives a painful thud. "No," I say. "No, there is a file. Try it again."

Corey tries it again, typing the number even slower than before. Anxiously, I watch his face as he presses enter once more. He shakes his head. "Nope. Same thing. File not found."

"Are you sure?"

Swiveling the screen towards me, Corey points to red letters at the top of the screen.

FILE NOT FOUND.

I don't want to believe it. There has to be something Corey didn't do right. "Are you positive you're in the right system? The Emulation Database?"

"Yes. Everything is right. It's the Emulation Database. I typed the number in right. But there is just no file." He glances down and adds, weakly, "Sorry." He looks almost as disheartened as I do. The pleasant images that have been running through his head this whole time must be evaporating now.

For a moment, I can't move. I just stare at the screen.

"Can I have a screenshot of that?" I hear myself ask. "Please."

"Yeah, sure." With a few clicks of the keyboard and a tap of the screen, Corey takes a snapshot of the monitor. The printer behind him hums, and he turns to grab the sheet of paper it spits out. When he hands the paper to me, a small smile pulls his lips. "Maybe I'll see you around the next time you come up here. Maybe we can grab a bite to eat at the café sometime."

"Maybe," is all I say to that. I force myself to smile back at him, though my heart is slamming against my sternum. "Thank you again for your help."

"I wish I could have done more."

I'm sure he does.

I turn away from the desk and walk out into the hall. The whole elevator ride to the first floor I am gnawing on my lip. And by the time I am walking across the hospital parking lot, making my way over to where Trip parked my car, my lip is raw.

When I open the passenger's side door and slip in, Trip's gaze immediately drops to the paper in my hands. Before I even shut my door, he snatches it from me. His eyes dart over the page, hungrily, as if he wants to eat up every single word.

I take a breath. "There is no file."

Trip's eyes stop darting. They snap up at me.

"I had the guy look it up three times. You must have given me the wrong number."

"The number," Trip says slowly, "is tattooed on my fucking arm. I didn't give you the wrong number."

"That number doesn't have a file."

"I know there is a file." He raises his voice.

So I raise mine. "I don't know what you want me to say. I watched the guy look it up—three times. He did everything right. I don't know what happened."

Trip stares at me, seemingly surprised at my outburst. I am just as surprised. I'm exhausted. I'm hungry. I guess I just don't have the energy to worry about what I'm saying to the nightmare with the gun.

Suddenly, Trip's eyes focus past me, over my shoulder. I watch the alarm register over his face, which in turn alarms me. I follow his gaze.

Across the parking lot, two black cars have pulled up beside the hospital's front entrance. The windows on each are tinted so dark I can't see who is inside until the doors open. Two men step out of the first car, followed by another two who step out of the second. Three are wearing a variation of gray and black suits. One of them—the one who leads the way into the hospital—is dressed in jeans and a black, expensive-looking coat.

Trip waits for them to walk through the hospital doors before starting the car.

"Who are they?" I ask, looking at him as he shifts the car into reverse. And then I pause, my heart pounding in my ears, realizing what I should be asking. "Who is after you?"