The Duplicate

Chapter Thirty-five

10:23 A.M.

Breathe. In, out. And count again.

One. Two. Three. As another minute begins to slip away on the analog clock across the room, black clouds creep over the sky. I tilt my head on my pillow to watch—

Twenty-three. Twenty-four.

—them smother the sun. The Bay's glimmer fades and dies. The walls, carpet, and comforter pulled over me char and darken to ash gray. I'm dragged into a black and white film, with only the sounds of the clock chiseling off seconds and my heart beating in my ears.

Seventy-five, seventy-six—twisting the edge of the Egyptian cotton sheet around and around my finger—seventy-seven, seventy-eight.

10:24 A.M. Seventy-eight beats per minute.

Taking in a deep, frazzled breath through my nose, I inhale lavender fabric softener. The scent didn't bother me before, but it's starting to turn my stomach now. Each nagging thought that gets through my mental barricade causes my heart rate to spike and adds a little more weight to my chest, anchoring me in place.

For the hundredth time, I look at the clock and count the heavy thuds in my chest.

One. Two. Th—

The door opens behind me. I stop twirling the sheet. Footsteps, entering the room, followed by a soft click—the door closing. A pause. Like the gutless child I am, I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep.

The footsteps start again. I shrink as they draw closer. And someone falls beside me, hard. The bed springs bounce and screech.

I jerk around.

"Good morning."

"Dax, you idiot."

Sprawled on his stomach, Dax snorts into the comforter, trying to contain his laughter. Facing him now, I drop back down into the sheets with a heavy huff, yanking the comforter to my ears.

"I couldn't resist. I had to, Eve, I'm sorry." He stuffs an arm under a pillow, nestles into the bed, gives a drawn-out sigh. He lies smiling under my glare for what feels like a full minute before he finally asks, "Are you getting out of bed today?"

"Maybe."

"You know, it's"—checking his digital watch—"almost half past ten."

"I didn't sleep well last night."

"You're talking to the idiot who conked out on the desk and woke up around four o'clock this morning with a gigantic crick in his neck." Eyebrows raised, he pauses for comment. But I'm not in the mood. "Well," he continues, "at least I didn't conk out on my keyboard and wake up to a bunch of crazy letters or something on my screen. I've done that before."

"Hm," is all I can say. I drag a hand over my face. "The house is quiet. Where is everyone?"

"They went to church. It's Sunday. Did you know that?"

"No."

"I didn't either. I think days have been running together for me."

"Yeah." It's my turn to pause, to wait and see if Dax will go on. Obviously, he's not. He's watching clouds. Now I'm just hesitating. I pull at an unraveled seam in my pillowcase. "Where's Trip?"

"He didn't go to church, even though that would be interesting." With another snort, Dax nods towards the wall adorned with family photos. "He's in the living room watching the news."