The Duplicate

Chapter Eight

Clothes hang above me and brush against my cheeks. Shoes scatter the floor. One single slither of light beams through the crack of the closet door. And I hear them. They're searching for me. The pounding of their footsteps beats like drums in my ears. Or is that my heart thrashing so loud?

I don't move.

I don't breathe.

The footsteps grow louder. Louder. Louder.

And something moves in the darkness. An arm or a leg, shifting, repositioning. In front of me. Someone is here with me. I move now, shuffling away from the figure, my eyes straining to catch just a glimpse of a face, but the darkness swallows its features.

"Eve," a voice says. And I know that voice.

"Daddy?" I breathe.

"Ashford."

A hand stretches out and touches my knee. I flinch. This isn't my father.

"Ashford."

With a jolt, I open my eyes.

The car is stopped, and the first thing my eyes land on is a bright neon sign hanging in the window of the diner directly in front of me.

O—P—E—N—OPEN. OPEN.

I blink at it then up at Trip who is standing beside my open door, his arm propped up on the top of the car. We are parked in a tiny parking lot dotted with only a few more cars. The highway we have been traveling lies behind us with a backdrop of fields and hills and a gray, overcast sky.

I don't recognize any of this. We are in the middle of nowhere.

"I fell asleep," I mutter, a little disoriented as my dream still withers and fades away.

With a roll of his eyes, Trip steps aside. "Very good. Now get out of the car."

Instantly, my eyes flicker towards the diner, and as I stumble out of the car, I stare up at Trip with hope burning in my eyes—as well as my stomach. "Are we eating here?"

"Yes," he says, and then adds, "if you behave."

I am too hungry to frown at him. A few more moments of my stomach threatening to eat itself with fierce growls and I may be willing to drop to my knees and grovel at Trip's feet for food.

Seemingly satisfied with my reaction, Trip nods slightly and leads the way towards the diner door.

This is a tired, old diner.

Upon walking in, I notice the pudgy trucker man at the bar staring blankly into his coffee and the old, soft-spoken couple sitting across the room at one of the tables. Only the noises of the bell ringing on the door as we enter and the clanging of pots and pans and plates and glasses from the kitchen bounce around the room. The aroma of food makes my stomach scream as I follow Trip to a booth set against the windows. The moment I am sliding onto the cushion of the booth, I am trying to grab the menu from the metal rack of condiments and trying to peel off my coat all at once.

Trip watches me. In my periphery, I can see his icy eyes trailing each movement I make, and I can only imagine the scowl he must be giving me. I probably look like a crazed monkey. But I am too busy searching the menu for the first thing that appears even remotely appetizing to care.

"Hi. I'm Martie," a female voice sounds beside me. "Can I get something started for you?"

I still have my nose stuck in the menu as I answer, "Yes, please... I would like—"