The pistol prods my back as I step through my front door. Maybe it's all in my mind, but I swear I can still feel the chill of it even through my wool coat. Tears slip over my eyelids. They've been silently escaping since I got out of the car. And my stomach churns like a washing machine, like I might be sick any moment.
Behind me, I hear the flip of a switch, and the hallway light comes on, blinding me for a moment. I am still blinking when I hear the door shut and my kidnapper takes my elbow, his grip so firm, unyielding, I am sure he is bruising my skin. He pushes me forward, towards my living room, but as we draw near the door of the front bedroom, he stops.
With his gun, he pushes open the slightly ajar door. Once he flips on the light, I stiffly turn my head to look at him. For the first time, I see his face.
The first thing I notice is the line of dried blood running from the corner of his mouth... I'm a nurse. Of course, that would be the first thing I notice. The second—those gleaming eyes which don't seem to ever stop gleaming, even now as he scans the bedroom. They are a peculiar shade of pale blue, like ice. And they are just as chilling. When he turns and they land on me, a shiver rattles down my spine.
"Meow."
The sound makes both of us jump.
My eyes dart down to the big, gray fur ball which has just come prancing out of the front bedroom and is now affectionately rubbing himself against my kidnapper's leg.
Get a dog, my father said when I moved into this house. A big, mean, ugly dog that would bite a man's hand off if ever someone tried to break in. But no. I had to get a cat.
"Get. It. Off. Me."
I look up to find my kidnapper glaring down at Larry like he is about to kick the fur ball across the room. Quickly, I grab Larry up, and the minute he is slung into my arms, he turns into putty, head lolling back, paws kneading the air. His lawn mower purrs vibrate against my chest.
Scowling at Larry like he is a freak of nature, my kidnapper flicks his gun towards the dark living room, motioning for me to go on, and I obey.
He pushes me towards the couch.
For just a moment there I had started to hope that maybe I would get through this whole ordeal unscathed, untouched. I thought maybe this guy would just take whatever he wanted from my home and leave. But now I am expecting the worst as he shoves me down onto the couch, caring little that Larry is squashed in the process.
Frantically, I twist around to look up at my living, breathing nightmare.
But he isn't even looking at me. He is surveying the room. "Don't move," he says, backing away from me and starting for the doors across the room. He opens the door to my bedroom first, and I watch with a pounding heart as he flicks the light on and glances inside. The second door is the bathroom. He doesn't bother with the light this time.
Having taken his command quite literally, I haven't moved an inch by the time he is making his way back into the living room. I am frozen, like a bizarre statue, with Larry purring up a storm under my chest.
"Are you expecting anyone tonight?" my kidnapper asks.
Fleetingly, I think of lying. If he thinks someone may be coming over he might leave. But I am too scared of him to lie. I find myself shaking my head against the cushion of the couch, and with some effort, I speak past the lump forming in my throat. "What do you want from me?"
"Coffee, for a start," he says. I stare at him, not understanding. "Do you have any?"
"Coffee?" I ask.
The irritated look he gives me reminds me he doesn't like to repeat himself. He juts his chin towards the kitchen. "Make some."
Of all things to ask for... Coffee?
I get up, carrying Larry with me as I round the bar which separates the kitchen from the living room. Flipping on the lights hanging over the island, I put Larry on the counter and head for the coffee pot.
My kidnapper takes post at the bar. I am fully aware of those icy eyes watching me. I try to ignore the mini-panic attacks they cause and set my mind on opening the cabinets where my coffee is stashed.
"Evette Ashford."
My heart leaps in my throat, and I whirl around.
The ice devil's gaze turns from an envelope, some bill on the counter, up at me. "That's you?"
Breathlessly, I say, "Yes."
He cocks his head to the side, just slightly. "You're an Ashford?"
There is a bruise on his cheekbone. My eyes flicker over it as I nod.
"Any relation to Doctor Andrew Ashford?"
Hesitantly, I nod again. "He's my father."
I am not surprised that he knows who my father is. For years I'd gone through elementary, middle, and high school where there wasn't a single person who didn't know my family's name. I was an Ashford—a well-respected and well-known doctor's daughter, born into a family of medical specialist ranging from doctors and nurses and dentists. It had always been expected that I would, of course, follow in my family's footsteps. And I did.
But.
This is different.
The way my kidnapper stares at me now isn't how people usually react when they hear of my family roots. Admiring regards and oh-wows are the norms. But my kidnapper doesn't seem impressed. He slowly looks me over, eyes turning stone-cold.
Unsettled by his silence, I turn back to finish the coffee, but when it is brewing and there is nothing else to do but wait, I am forced to face him again. I find that Larry, with a swishing tail and string of meows, has decided to climb up onto the bar and approach my kidnapper. Completely oblivious to the danger, Larry sashays towards him as if he's just chosen his new best friend.
My kidnapper glares at him idly from the corner of his eyes, and the moment Larry is close enough, he whips his hand back and smacks Larry in the nose.
"Stop!" I gasp, moving towards the bar, grabbing Larry, who has resulted to lying on his belly and scrunching up his face as his defense. When I sling him into my arms once again, he is fine. He purrs and lounges against me like he didn't just have the snot slapped out of him. Still, I am horror-struck.
I shake my head at this monster who has kidnapped me, has come into my home, and has bullied my cat. And now he is looking at me like he's done nothing wrong. My mouth falls open to say something. I'm not entirely sure what. Before I can breathe a word, though, the coffee pot beeps.
I pause and glance behind me. "It's done."
The cat-slapping, pale-eyed monster makes his way around the bar into the kitchen.
"The mugs are in the cabinet above the coffee machine, " I say, backing away.
As he opens the cabinet, I look over the dried blood on the side of his mouth I had seen in the hallway.
He must have been in a fight—the dried blood, the bruise. I watch his bicep flex as he takes a coffee mug. And I wonder, for just a second, how the other guy turned out.
"Who are you?" I ask, the question seemingly coming out of nowhere.
He sets the mug on the counter and without even looking at me asks, "Officially? Or unofficially?"
I'm not sure what he means. I just shrug my shoulders.
"Officially, I am five-six-seven-six-eight-oh-five-eight-two."
I shake my head, still not understanding.
He turns towards me, extending his arm with a bit of a jerk. At first, I flinch away, thinking he is reaching for me. Then I realize he is only holding out his wrist. I look down.
Across his wrist is the type of tattoo I have seen numerous times. It's an identification number.
567-68-0582
And my mouth falls agape.
He's a duplicate.
No.
He can't be. That's impossible. Duplicates don't just walk around in the outside world. Duplicates don't live among people. Duplicates don't live. They're housed in Emulation Facilities, kept hooked up to machines.
Mind spinning, I look up at my kidnapper.
His icy eyes bore into mine. "Unofficially, they call me Trip," the duplicate says.