The Duplicate

Chapter Twelve

The elevator's sleek stainless-steel doors slide closed, and a soft, recorded feminine voice sounds over the intercom. "Going up."

Trip hasn't told me exactly what we are doing in an apartment complex. Then again, we've barely spoken a word to one another this morning as it is.

The only scrap of information he's given me was when we were in the car, riding into the city with glass-walled buildings stretching taller and taller around us. Traffic grew worse and worse, along with Trip's road-rage, the further we burrowed into downtown. Eventually, I couldn't help but break the silence between us. I had to ask him, sullenly—still having not forgotten our spat last night—what it is he plans on doing. Does he plan on just waltzing into a Government Facility, requesting access to the Database? Does he plan on sending me in there?

All I'd gotten out of him was, "I know someone." Not only does that tell me nothing, it doesn't settle well with me either. Anyone Trip knows isn't someone I want to know.

The elevator gives a faint lurch as it begins to ascend. After a moment of watching the white numbers count up above us, I throw a quick glance in Trip's direction.

The little sleep he had must have done him good. When I woke this morning, my irritable personal furnace was no longer beside me. I found him sitting on the floor, under the window, pistol in hand, already showered, dressed, and ready to go. Apparently, at some point in time, he left while I was sleeping to buy new clothes for himself and coffee for the both of us. Yet despite waking so early and only having a few hours of sleep, he seems to be in a better mood. Of course, I don't think he's capable of being in a good mood. At least the dark circles under his eyes have faded, and he hasn't shoved the gun in my face today.

But.

The new dark blue, button-up, long-sleeved—though he's shoved the sleeves up his forearms—shirt he is wearing is just tight enough to show how tense he is. His anxiety kicked in the moment we stepped into the elevator.

"Floor fifteen," the female voice drones again.

The elevator stops, and the doors breeze open.

Trip steps out and leads me through the empty hallway, our footsteps scuffing over the soft carpet. My eyes flicker over every door, each number etched over a gold plate.

1524. This is the door Trip stops at. His eyes—that dark blue shirt somehow making them seem bluer—switch from the door to me. "You're going to knock," he says.

I stare at him. "What?"

As he moves to lean against the wall, Trip only gives me the same aggravated look I'm coming to know. The one that says, Do NOT make me repeat myself.

"Why?" I ask.

"He'll have the chain on the door, I'm sure."

"I mean why me?" Why doesn't Trip want to knock? Is he risking my life instead of his? Am I going to be shot or something?

He ignores my question. "Get him to take the chain off."

"How?"

"It doesn't matter. Make something up."

"What do you what me to say?"

Every second that passes, the aggravated look on Trip's face turns more and more into a glare.

"Just do it," he says. "Now."

I sigh, a little shakily. "Fine."

Sweeping my hair—which smells like the old, cheap soap I'd found at the motel this morning—over my shoulder, I lift my chin and step closer to the door. My knuckles rap on the wood. Three times.