The Duplicate

Chapter Twenty-seven

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?"