The Duplicate

Chapter Four

"... were attacked..."

My eyes open. Blink.

"... both believed to have suffered..."

They focus on yellow, plaid fabric.

"... multiple injuries. Luckily, the two officers were..."

Hm. The pattern looks strangely familiar.

"... in walking distance of Whithorn Hospital..."

And I realize I am staring at the back of my couch.

I've been sleeping.

With a sharp intake of air, I jerk upright, catapulting Larry, who has been soundly napping on my back, to the floor. My eyes dart around the room, searching for him­, and at the same time, I try to remember the last thing that happened before I dozed off.

I remember the five cups of black coffee he drank, back to back, one after the other. I remember sitting silently at the table watching him, but not really seeing him; I felt so far away from myself. Hazily, I remember stumbling into the living room. But I don't remember falling asleep.

How long have I been out? It must be three or four in the morning by now.

My gaze lands on him, and I stop.

He is standing in my kitchen, barely having moved from where I last remember seeing him. His back is to me, and he is leaning in on the counter, listening to the news crackle and fizz over the radio in front of him. "... is in fact armed and, police say, extremely dangerous. If you have any information involving—" He switches the radio off.

The silence that falls over the house racks my nerves. My breathing comes in quick, little puffs, and a wisp of hair that has slipped out of my bun wafts back and forth from my face.

Armed and extremely dangerous. Did that report have anything to do with my kidnapper?

For what seems like an eternity, he only stands there.

And then there is a snap.

I know that sound. It's the sound of a magazine being snapped back into a gun.

As soon as he is turning and starting for the living room, I am already scrambling back on the couch. Vaguely, I notice I am still wearing my wool coat. It makes it difficult to move fast enough. Though, the grogginess fogging my mind doesn't help either.

Trip advances until he towers over me. I freeze, staring up at him, shrinking back into the couch, gaze flickering down at the gun at his side.

"I have some questions for you." His voice is calm despite the stress flecked in his eyes. He looks tense, coiled up like a spring ready to snap. And that scares me.

I nod quickly.

"Do you have access to Emulation?"

After a beat, I manage to stammer, "Emulation? The Emulation Facility here?"

He nods once.

"Yes. It's branched with the hospital."

"Do you have access to the Database?"

"The Database? The Emulation Database?"

His jaw clenches. He shifts, and his finger inches towards the trigger of his gun. He has absolute zero patience for stupid questions.

I shake my head vigorously, shaking my bun out even more. "No. No, not personally."

"Then who does?"

My gaze flickers away. My hesitation makes Trip take a step closer. "Someone in Archives can access it," I say. "They handle all medical records and enter them into the Database."

Trip pauses now, and I can see the gears turning in his mind—formulating and organizing his thoughts. "You're going to do something for me," he says finally.

I blink up at him. Do something? For him? Images of bringing a bomb into Emulation Archives flash in my mind.

"I need my file from the Emulation Database," Trip says, obliterating those images.

I start to shake my head, slowly at first, but as his words sink in I'm shaking it harder and harder. "I can't. Records are protected by doctor-patient confidentiality. I can't just walk in and request your—"

"Listen, Ashford," he hisses, spitting my last name like it is acid on his tongue. He takes another step closer and leans forward so we are nearly face to face. "I don't care what you have to do. I need that file. And you're going to get it one way or another. Unless" —he shoves the pistol under my chin— "you'd rather not."

I close my eyes. There is something unstable about him—his anger, his force. Instability is dangerous. I'm scared out of my mind. "I'll do it," I whisper, barely able to breathe. My chest is so tight with anxiety my lungs feel like they are being wrung and squeezed.

"Good." He lowers the gun and straightens.

When I open my eyes, I realize I am crying again. Warm tears glide down my cheeks. They must spark some sort of guilt in Trip because his eyes drop to the floor. "If you get it," he says, and his voice comes just a tad milder, "I'll leave you alone. You have my word on that."

The word of a nightmare kidnapper. The word of a duplicate, who is somehow impossibly standing here in front of me. I don't know how reliable that is.

Wiping at my tears, I ask, "Why do you need your file?"

And like that his voice is bitter again. "It doesn't matter why. Get up. Get ready."

"What? Right now?" I gape at him in disbelief. I haven't slept but one or two hours. I haven't eaten anything since lunch yesterday. He can't possibly expect me to function right now.

Trip flicks a quick glance towards the clock in the kitchen, but I know he's too far away to actually read it. "I don't have much time."

"But I—"

"You have five minutes. Now. Get. Ready." He snatches the shoulder of my coat and jerks me off the couch, so quick I don't even have time to react. The tiny yelp that passes through my lips is delayed.

The moment he releases me, I quickly stagger back, away from him. My feet stumble over each other as I head for the bathroom. And once behind the door, closed off in my tiny bathroom, fumbling around with the knobs of my sink, I try to focus on calming my nerves. I take slow, deep breaths as I wash my face with cool water. It feels so refreshing I lean into the sink, take a handful of water, and pat the nape of my neck.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection and look up.

I look pale. Tiny mazes of red lines streak over my eyes. My hair is an absolute mess, bunched up in a half-undone bun on the back of my head, sticking out here and there. I rip out my hair tie and let my hair fall in knots on my shoulders. It only takes one attempt to use my fingers as a comb until I give up and stoop down to rummage under my sink for a brush.

When I stand and my eyes return to the mirror, brush in hand, I just stop and stare back at myself.

That feeling is clawing at me again. That feeling like I'm in a dream, a horrible, horrible nightmare. Like none of this is real. Like I'm about to go insane, break down, cry or scream or something.

Calm down.

Get a grip.

Everything will work out.

I'll figure out how to get that file. I'll get it. I'll give it to Trip.

And this nightmare will end.