The Duplicate

Chapter Six

Trip shoves me so hard through the front door I stumble and almost fall into my front hallway. In a useless defense, I spin around and press myself against the wall, shrinking, trying to become as small as I can.

Something has come over him. The stress I'd seen flecked in his eyes has now twisted into some kind of craze. Every muscle in his body seems tense. And his eyes blaze—a curious thing—like ice fire, piercing holes straight through me.

With a quick step towards me, he spits, "Go pack."

I blink at him, my mouth falling open, moving up and down without a word. I couldn't have heard him right. It sounded like he told me to go pack. My gaze drops and searches the floor, as if something may be scribbled over the tiles to help me make sense of all of this. "But why?"

"We don't have time for me to explain. We need to leave. Now."

Leave? Tears bubble up inside me. I am breathing wildly. "But... but you said you would leave. You said you would leave me alone—"

"We have less than ten minutes before they come knocking down your door—"

"But you promised!"

"I promised I'd leave if you got my file. And you didn't."

A gasp escapes past my lips. Blurry eyed, I stare at Trip in horror.

He can't do this to me. He can't hold me to a pact I didn't want to be a part of in the first place. He can't swoop into my life and rip me from my home. I open my mouth to protest—I did what you asked! There was no file!—but Trip has had enough. He seizes the front of my coat and drags me through my living room all the way to my bedroom.

I am sobbing now. Tears stream down my cheeks, and when Trip throws me into the room, I retreat into the corner of my dresser next to the door. I curl so far into the corner I feel I might be able to fit into the small crack between the dresser and the wall.

Over the sobs racking from me, I hear Trip curse. He crosses the room to my closet and, after a moment of searching, returns with one of my suitcases and flings it open on my bed. He's going to pack for me. One way or another, he is going to take me from my home.

My shoulders start to quake from the force of my sobs. I think of everything he is threatening to tear me from. My home. My work. My life. And what about Larry? My sweet, lovable cat—my baby. What about him?

Trip is emptying out one of my drawers and dumping it into my suitcase when a loud, booming knock ricochets through my house from the front door.

Both of us freeze.

Trip's eyes snap up at me from across the room.

There is a second where our eyes meet.

Just a second.

Then without hesitation, without even a conscious thought, I am moving—darting for my bedroom door, swinging it open. Before I can take a single step into my living room, Trip's arms are around my waist, jerking me backward.

I fight.

I kick my legs.

I claw at his arms.

I draw a breath to scream.

Trip's hand cups over my mouth. He wrenches me around to face him, slams me against the wall. I hear him tell me to stop, but I keep fighting, trying to break free from his iron grip, trying to scream as hard as I can through his fingers.

But I am tired. Weak. And he is so strong.

"Stop and listen to me," Trip hisses, shaking me once so my eyes lock on his. "They will not help you. They will kill you. Do you understand me?"

I stare at him, breathing hard, my tears wetting his hand. His skin smells like metal. And it is hot — almost feverish against mine. With those icy eyes of his, I expected his touch to be stone-cold. But I was wrong. He is burning me.

"I can get us out of here," he breathes, "but you have to—"

A crack peals through the house. A gun shot. Metal snapping.

My whole body gives a jolt, the sound rattling my brain, confusing me. To Trip, it seems to do just the opposite. The sound wakes him—makes his eyes flash, quickens his breath—and suddenly, he is pulling me out of my bedroom into the living room.

"Get down," he orders me, shoving me towards the bar.

I don't hesitate. I drop to the floor, scrambling to press my back to the wall of the bar. My heart pounds so loud in my ears it feels like my eardrums will burst.

Trip draws his gun from the back of his waistband and takes a stance next to the bar where he has a perfect view of the front hall and door. With both hands, he raises the gun and cocks the hammer.

And he waits.

I hear a squeal then, a slow, grinding squeal, the front door opening.

Seconds tick by.

And Trip pulls the trigger. The gun fires—loud, deafening, making my ears ring. A bullet casing pops up, landing on the tiled floor with a ting. There are shouts. And a solid thud.

Quickly, Trip turns and snags me by the arm. In seconds, he has me on my feet and is hauling me back into my bedroom.

My gaze is glued to his face.

He just shot someone.

He just shot someone.

Yet there is nothing in his expression or voice as he slams the door closed and says, "In the closet. Go."

I dash for the closet, slinging myself behind the door. My fingers clutch the edge. But I don't close it. I can't. My eyes are trained on Trip as he raises the gun, waits a beat, head cocked, listening. And then he opens fire on the door.

Bam! Bam!—I cover my ears—Bam! Bam! Bam!

More shouts. A pained cry. And gunfire erupts from outside the door. Trip moves to back against the wall, avoiding the bullets that blast through the wood. A scream works up my throat. My knees quiver, give out. I dive to the floor.

The gunfire stops abruptly, and there is only a moment's pause before the door is flung open, smashing into the wall. A man whirls into the room. A glint of metal flashes in the light as he aims his gun at Trip.

But Trip is fast. He's already twisting the man's arm, pointing the shot away when the gun goes off. The next bullet fired is Trip's—with the barrel of his pistol set right between the man's eyes.

The man's head lurches back. Blood splatters the wall.

And he is crumpling to the floor, legs and arms bending in weird angles like a rag doll.

My world starts to spin, round and round.

Sways, side to side.

My breathing becomes quick, light.

Trip says something. I don't know what. His words are garbled, muffled by the ringing in my ears. I don't remember him moving, but he is beside my bed now, zipping up my suitcase. He grabs the handle and lifts it off the bed.

And then suddenly he is beside me, yanking me off the floor.

My gaze turns up at him.

Electricity. That's what his eyes look like now. Yes. Two sparks, darting and shifting, scalding me even though my body feels numb.

Faintly, I am aware of him lugging me into the living room. I see the red trail leading from the edge of the bar to the man, leg bloodied, crawling away. I hear Trip's gun fire—a weird sound, like cymbals clashing together in the center of my mind—stopping the man cold.

My eyes fall shut before I can see the blood spatter the floor. I just let Trip lead me through the hallway. Even when my foot stumbles over something solid, something sprawled across the doorway, I don't open my eyes to look.