How many times in the past have I seen Daddy calling blinking on my phone screen? My heart shouldn't be pounding so hard as I tap answer and, before Trip mutters it, switch the phone to speaker. But it is; my heart is thrashing. My fingers are trembling, causing the phone light to quiver about the car like the lighting of a scary movie. My voice is no longer calm as I croak out a, "Hello?"
At first, nothing. Dax is bouncing his leg and biting his thumb nail. Trip is unnervingly still. Both look on, lean in, listen with me. Each one of us exchanging glances, waiting. Then—
"Evette?" a voice asks, throaty and powerful, with a trace of natural authority even when distressed. Hundreds of memories hit me at once, but I'm surprised by the one my mind latches on to: half-running, half-limping my seven year old body through his office door with a skinned knee, blood dripping down my calve, a running nose, and cheeks striped with tears. Da-deee, I flew off my bike!
I close my eyes. "Yes, Daddy. It's me."
"OhthankGod." The phone line crackles with a harsh sigh. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm okay."
"They told me everything they know, and I had no clue what to think. Baby, are you sure you're okay? Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine." I think of the bruises blotting my face. "Really, I'm okay."
"Have you been sleeping?"
At the ridiculousness of this question, my eyes flash roof-ward. "Yes."
"Eating?"
"Yes, I have."
"He hasn't deprived you?"
"No."
"Has he hurt you?"
"No. I'm not hurt." A sly glance at Trip. "He's pointed a gun at me and shoved me around a little..."
"Pointed a gun at you?"
"But he hasn't hurt me."
"Has he touched you, Evette?"
My cheeks warm at the low, accusatory note my father's voice has taken on. "No, Daddy."
"Has he tried?"
"No, Daddy, he's decent." I surprise myself by saying so, and I'm even more surprised by the revelation that it's true. He's no angel, but Trip could be much worse. He could deprive me. He could hurt me. He could—
Focusing on the screen, I don't allow myself to look up, even though I am very aware of the ice-devil looking at me from the corner of his eyes.
"Decent? Evette..." My father's tone has changed again. Astonished, slightly hesitant. "Do you know what he is?"
The "what" in his question makes me pause, my eyes narrowed—something in the tone, the little bite of implication. "What", not "who". And suddenly a shock wave blasts though my mind. I'm left blinking like I've just had dust thrown in my eyes, and before I know it I'm leaning forward, countering my father's question with my own. "You know?"
No answer.
But that's answer enough. "You knew?" Steadily, unconsciously, my voice starts to grate harder, angrier. "How? When? How long have you known about him? How long have you known about the proj—"
"Quiet." That small trace of the authority in my father's voice expands just a tad for just a moment, and slipping into tradition, my chin lowers a couple of inches to face the coming chastisement. "Whatever you know is strictly confidential information, Eve, strictly confidential. Put it out of mind, right now. You weren't meant to know. Do you understand?"
Quietly. "Yes Sir." And when I see Trip's eyes flashing over me like a machine scanning for emotion, my cheeks burn even more. I really wish he wasn't watching this.
"Now, listen to me," my father says, "I am trying to straighten this out. I've been talking to Detective Ralston, the detective overseeing this case. He's under the impression you are acting as an accomplice. That can't be true."
"No." I'm shaking my head even though he can't see it. "They're running that on the news, but that's not true at all."
"Detective Ralston says he has written witness accounts stating you were seen fleeing a nightclub after you were recognized by a Government Official and seen helping the duplicate escape after he was wounded. Is that true?"
"I—" ... can't come up with a proper reply.
"Evette, you need to understand something. Are you listening?"
Chin lowering again. "Yes Sir."
"The duplicate you've come in contact with is extremely dangerous—"
"I know that."
"No. You don't." I can almost see the way he's probably closing his eyes and raising his hand right now. Do not interrupt me. It's rude. "He's not decent, Eve. He is extremely, extremely intelligent when it comes to manipulating others. He's very resourceful. If he sees any use in you, he will utilize it. You are a tool to him, nothing more, and he will use whatever he can to control you. That includes pity, do you understand?"
"Yes Sir."
"Do not pity him. If you sympathize with him and his so-called cause, if you allow him to manipulate you, you will be considered a threat, and I will not be able to persuade Government otherwise. Do you understand what I am saying, Evette? If you help him, you will put your life in danger."
A pause. A breath. "I'm not an accomplice, Daddy. I'm not helping him. I have nothing to do with—"
"I believe you, baby, I believe you, and I know you're not meaning to help him. He's confusing you. Listen, do not let him toy with you. Do not believe a word he says. Do not be afraid to seek help from Government. Running and hiding from them only makes you look suspicious, and helping him escape that nightclub was a serious mistake."
"But, Daddy, I had to, my life is already in danger, Government is after me too, they would have killed me if they caught—"
"No, Evette. He's lying to you. Government is after him. They weren't suspicious of you until Detective Ralston suspected that you might be an accomplice—after the nightclub, after you helped him, and I'm trying to clear that up."
Slowly, very slowly, I sit back in my seat.
"Now, where has he taken you? Tell me where you are, Evette."
My eyes switch to the dark figure who held a gun to my head and forced me into its life. The same dark figure who hasn't moved to snatch the phone from me yet, only flicks its gleaming eyes over mine, slightly tilts its head.
"I can't," I say.
"Why?"
"He's listening."
Silence. The line sounds dead. Just soft electrical static comes through, causing my heart to flutter. Is he gone? Did he hang up? Then my father's voice returns a few tones deeper. "If you so much as touch a hair on my daughter's head, I swear to God I'll kill you."
"Time to go," Trip says, low, barely glancing down at the phone, barely giving any sign he even heard the threat.
Tears are springing in my eyes as I turn away. Lowering my voice to mask the hard lump forming in my throat, I whisper, "Daddy, I have to go."
"Alright, alright." Another crackle of a sigh comes over the phone, this one drawn-out. "Stay strong, Eve. We'll figure this out. Okay?"
"Okay."
"I love you."
"I love you too." I can't bring myself to say or even hear the damning words "good-bye". So, with a quick tap, I end the call. Drop my hand. And for eternity I sit with the phone in my lap as my mind races, zigzags, runs in loops, grasps at nothing. There's no ground beneath me anymore. It's all been swept out from underneath me.
In my periphery, I can see Trip watching me intently. He hasn't said a word.
"Tell me the truth," I say, smearing tears with my shaking palm.
"I have been telling—"
"TELL ME THE TRUTH!" Wrenching my hand from my face, voice overwhelming the small space of the car and ringing in my ears, I turn on Trip.
He doesn't flinch. Only his eyes flash. "I. Have. Been."
"Okay. Guys, come on." Dax raises his hands. "Let's not—"
"You're lying," I spit.
"I haven't lied to you once," Trip growls.
"You expect me to believe you over my own father—"
"Your father isn't this creative. It's Ralston. He's using him to get to you."
I blink. And with a fresh wave of tears blurring the world, I shake my head. "No." I shake my head harder. "No, I don't believe you. I don't believe a word you say. You've been manipulating me right from the start."
Dax must see the way Trip's eyes are slowly twisting from ice-cold to white-hot, because now Dax's hands are waving around in the air. "Hey, seriously, guys, please —"
"I'm not the one trying to manipulate you." Acid has spilled into Trip's voice, and he pauses a second to try to swallow it down, pressing his lips together, glancing away. He tries again—still with a glare in his eyes. "Putting you on the news was meant to rattle you. And it did. Now Ralston has your father calling, trying to paint me as a liar. And it's working like a fucking charm."
Furiously, I look away and flick a tear off my cheek with the back of my finger. I say nothing.
Trip lets out an exasperated sigh, throwing his hands up and slamming them back down on the steering wheel. "Ralston didn't send three men in suits to your house to take me in, Ashford. They were there for you. If I had left you behind Government would have taken you in, interrogated you, and they would have killed you. I'm not lying to you."
"The only reason you dragged me out of my house was because you wanted to use me some more."
Trip curses under his breath—something about being fucking impossible—and turns away.
But I go on, voice rising once again. "You lied to me and made it seem like I didn't even have a choice, like I had no other option but to help you. You told me—"
"I told you the truth." Trip jerks around, now in my face, with each word snapping his teeth at me like a wolf. "Government knows that, and now they're afraid. Not only did I take you with me, but instead of falling back on Government, you ran from Braxton. That showed them I'm telling you things, and you're listening. They didn't like that. The more you trust me, the more of a threat you are to them."
Turning away, I shake my head again and again. "I don't trust you."
"You don't want to trust me. Look at me." With one quick swipe, Trip takes hold of my elbow and wrenches me around to face him again. But I refuse to meet his eyes. "You don't want to hear the truth. You'd rather hate me. You'd rather believe there is some way out of this—"
"Let go of me."
"—that Daddy can help you go back to living a fucking lie."
Tears trickling down my face, I attempt to pry his fingers from my arm. But Trip stops me with one hard shake—jarring me, making my teeth clack together.
"Look. At. Me."
My eyes—furious, yet terrified—snap to his. And he holds my gaze, seizes it in an instant, makes me feel like he's suddenly holding me suspended in thin air.
"Hating me," he says solidly, "isn't going to change anything. It's not going to change what I am. It's not going to change what you've done. And it's not going to change the fact Government wanted you dead the moment they knew I stepped into your life." Chest heaving with each unsteady breath, I try to pull away from him, but his iron grip tightens. He shakes me again. "Stop and listen. They thought I would leave you, but I didn't. I dragged you from your house, because if I hadn't Government would have killed you. And it would have been my fucking fault."
Taken aback, I blink at my tears, trying to see him more clearly. His pale eyes are flitting back and forth across mine, searching me as I search him. I'm no longer even sure how to set my face. Angry? Indifferent? Subdued? I don't know what to feel.
"This is all your fault," I mutter.
"I know." His gaze slips over my face, grip loosening a little on my arm, anger dying down a shade. "And I know you're scared. But running to your father won't help. You have to trust me on this."
Pulling my bottom lip between my teeth, I try to restrain the next wave of tears that flood my eyes. I'm not scared; I'm terrified. Terrified of what was and what is to come. Terrified of what I don't know and what I do know. Terrified of the possibility that Trip might be lying to me, and terrified that he might be telling me the truth.
I turn away, wiping tears with my free hand.
For a long second, Trip doesn't move, as if wanting to say more. But he must sense I've already decided not to listen, because with a heavy, smoldering sigh, he finally releases me—shoving me slightly. The moment I am free, I move as close to my window as I can, resting my elbow on the door, back of my hand to my mouth, tears cutting silently down my cheeks.
I concentrate on shutting off my thoughts.
In the corner of my eye, I can see Trip throw a glance back at Dax—who only clears his throat—but Trip doesn't say a word. He starts the car, rams it into drive, and spins the tires on gravel before jerking the car onto the road. In seconds we're speeding down the highway, fifteen miles over the speed limit, with Trip working his jaw.