The Duplicate

Chapter Thirteen

He's been glaring at his coffee mug for about an hour now.

His arm rests across the small, dull kitchen table. His knuckles are white from clenching his fist. Taut, the muscle in his jaw works as he grits his teeth, slowly, thoughtfully. If he has noticed me watching him, he doesn't show it.

"You know..." I say, sounding loud after such a long silence. Only the sound of Dax clunking away on a keyboard has been carrying down the hall from the computer room.

My voice draws Trip out of his trance, makes him blink up at me as if he's forgotten that I am sitting across from him. I suppose he hasn't noticed me watching. He's been somewhere else—in some other space and time.

"Maybe you should lay off the coffee," I say, gesturing at the mug and the goose painted on the side and the paisley border of flowers surrounding the bird. Dax swore it was his grandmother's set of mugs. "The caffeine doesn't help with anxiety."

Something, unease perhaps, sparks across Trip's gaze. He glances away and with effort, unclenches his fist. Wrapping my fingers around my own warm coffee mug, I take a sip and watch him roll his shoulder in an attempt to unwind his muscles. He doesn't succeed.                                                     

"What's bothering you?"

"Nothing." He spits the word.

I go back to sipping my coffee.

We sit in another silence. The second hand on the boring, black and white clock behind Trip tick, tick, ticks, each second seeming to pass faster than the one before it.

Footsteps sound down the hall, and Dax appears around the corner of the kitchen. "It's done," he says, placing my cell phone on the table in front of Trip and then backing away—far away—all the while chewing his thumb nail and trying to look anywhere but at the devil sitting at his kitchen table. 

"That was quick," Trip says.  

"Yeah. Yeah." Dax nods vigorously. But then he sees the suspicion clouding Trip's expression. He didn't mean that as a compliment. "No, no. That type of phone didn't give me a lot of trouble."

"For your sake, it better work." Trip's icy eyes fix on Dax's face. And I wonder if Trip knows just how deep those eyes affect people.

Dax shudders and fidgets as Trip stands from his chair. "It will work. Definitely. The trace is blocked, and so is the number. Nothing will show u—"

"Sit down."

"Okay." Dax quickly clamors into the chair, so quickly he almost misses the seat and falls backwards onto the floor. With much clattering, he is finally able to settle in the chair without killing himself.

Stone-faced, Trip grabs the phone and, punching in numbers on the touch screen, turns his back on us. He approaches the kitchen counter. Dax and I exchange glances—his more panicky than mine. His leg bounces up and down under the table. It's an annoying sound. Thump—thump—thump—thump.

"Yes. I need to speak to Detective Ralston."

My attention turns to Trip again. He is talking into the phone now. I can only hear the buzzing of another voice on the line. No words, no sense. Just high-pitched buzzing. A woman's voice possibly.

"I have information," Trip says, "involving his case."

Thump—thump—thump—thump.

Trip turns to throw a harsh look at Dax.

Instantly, Dax stops his leg from bouncing.

More buzzing comes from the phone. And then silence.