The Duplicate

Chapter Twenty-eight

I don't know what I was expecting. But this wasn't it.

Down a modest road jutting off the highway, down a winding dirt road marked by a mailbox, the trees canopying the path, caging each side of the car, abruptly clear. Like a breath of fresh air the sky breaks open, and a huge lawn—tinged with brown by winter frosts—leaps towards a white two-story house. Just one house, flanked by woods on both sides. A giant, bare poplar tree stands in the front yard, and the Bay, a twinkling blue-green, stretches across in the back.

I'm enraptured.

As the tires grind over rocks, I ease on the brake and steer the car around a gravel driveway circling the poplar tree. The grating slows as the tires slow. The house's reflection scrolls up the windshield. And I duck down, nose close to the steering wheel, gaping up at the curtained windows on the second floor.

"This is it?"

"Yep," Dax says beside me. "This is it."

I stare.

"It's nice, huh?"

Distracted, I pop the gearshift into park. My gaze trails the banisters of the wrap-around porch, touch on the red and yellow snapdragons pouring out of the planters on the front railings. "It's beautiful," I say.

A wink of light interrupts my musing, drawing my attention to the front door. The morning sun flashes over glass, and there, coming out onto the porch, is a middle-aged woman in a red robe. She's wiping her hands with a dish towel, craning her neck to look at the car.

"That's her?" I ask.

"That's her," Dax says, unfastening his seat belt with a click, "probably wondering who we are." He reaches for the door handle, but as an after thought, his fingers flit away. He snaps his neck around to look at Trip over his lenses instead. "Should, uh, I get out first?"

I roll my eyes.

"Go ahead," Trip says.

Dax grabs the door handle.

Up on tiptoes now, the woman watches the car door swing open. And the moment her gaze zeros in on Dax stepping out of the car, the moment she recognizes his timid wave, her hands and the dish towel go to her hips. Her mouth drops in a wide smile. "David... Xavier... Scott!? Is that you? My gosh! What in the world are—" The car door closes, and her next words are muffled.

Quiet.

A few seconds of awkward silence goes by—gnawing on my lip, tapping my fingernail on the gearshift—and I decide I'm not sitting in here alone with Trip. I sweep a glance over my shoulder. "Do I have your permission to get out too?"

At my biting tone, Trip only cocks his head.

I don't bother waiting for answer. Climbing out into the cold air, I cast my gaze over the roof of the car. Dax treks up the driveway. Aubrey's slippers pad down the steps leading off of the porch, her arms thrown wide to pull Dax into a hug. I watch their embrace, then reluctantly, pushing my door closed, I glance at Trip. He's getting out too now.

"Did you leave your gun in the car?"

Trip gives me a look. An obvious no.

Glaring back, I shift from one leg to the other. "Would you shoot a woman in a robe?"

"Don't start." Trip slams his door.

"I think it's a valid question."

"Ashford." His eyes fix on me with that unspoken warning I've come to know. "Don't start."