The Duplicate

Chapter Thirty-nine

Whatever the roller coaster ride was for him, he's blown off enough steam, for now. As he comes down from the adrenaline high, the pressure in the car decompresses, and lightheaded, I fall along with him.

Glean him.

Collect and dissect him.

Track each powerful breath he takes. Study the way the light angles along his jaw, touches his throat, and reflects on beads of rain on his skin. Watch him reach up, laggardly, and turn dials on the center dashboard. Blessed heat blasts through the vents. He glances up at the wipers swatting backandforth-backandforth in a panic, switches them off, and he props his arm on the armrest between us with an airy sigh. His hand rests on the gearshift.

The car is in park.

Quiet, a surprisingly comfortable silence, given the circumstances: I'm stuck in a car with the dark figure again. In the middle of the woods, in a storm. Déjà vu. Feels like I've been here before, lost in the dark, trees, wind, and rain with him. In a sense, I think I have. And I don't want to break the silence yet. I want to keep falling, settle into my warming leather seat, and listen to our breathing slow and sync.

Rain smacks and weaves in jagged rivers down glass, down the windshield, down the windows, tumbles on the dirt road, shines in the beams of the headlights. Lightning flares on bare branches—two quick flashes—and the trees are dark again. Four seconds later, thunder rolls over us, shuddering the car.

"We will be going back," I murmur, "right?"

"Right."

"Dax is most likely freaking out. He probably thinks we left him."

"I hope so."

"You can't be angry with him."

"I'm just angry."

My gaze wanders back to him. He watches the rain. His shoulders are slack. Each blink is heavier than the last. He could, seemingly, fall asleep this very moment, so I don't know if it's a good time to ask. I feel like I should.

"Trip, do you want to talk about it?"

"Do you want to hear it?"

"I'll listen."

"I used to be great," he says, with no reluctance. The message hovers in the heat and the noise, and he lets it sink in—to him, not me. Rolling his tongue against the inside of his cheek, he loses focus and sees nothing. "I was good at following orders."

"I can't imagine you following orders."

He only glances at me.

"Is there a connection," I ask, "between your nightmare and BlackWall?"

The pressure in the car fluctuates. A hiccup of stress. He raises his hand to rub his eyes. "Maybe. I don't know, Ashford. It's not that one." He stays still, thumb and index finger pressed to his eyelids, and I wait for him to come back from wherever he's gone. His face tightens.

Maybe I shouldn't have asked.

"It's a lot." He gives a quick shake of his head, dragging his hand over his mouth and dropping it back down. "Dax should have told me. I would have rather known."

"You don't like surprises."

"No, not usually."

"He wanted you to feel comfortable here."

"Worked great."

"You should be thanking him—wait, let me finish." As Trip readies himself to disagree on this point entirely, I raise my palm. "Firstly, you need him. You should be thanking him for the program alone. Secondly, Dax talked you up to Malcolm and Aubrey. He didn't tell them the whole truth either. They let us stay. They made you a steak dinner, for goodness' sake, tried to make you feel welcome. I'm sure that was all for you. And you're the one who started asking questions in the first place."