The Duplicate

Chapter Nine

The windshield wipers swish side to side wildly as rain pounds down on the car. These are the sounds I used to love as a child—the metallic clacks against the car's roof, the rumble of distant thunder. These sounds used to calm me.

They don't right now.

I stare out the windshield and watch a mother and her small daughter soak themselves as they scurry out of the gas station, around my car. And then my gaze flickers uneasily towards Trip, who shifts the car into park. "What are we doing here?" I ask, speaking the first words I have spoken to him in hours.

Since we left the diner, we've ridden in silence for miles upon miles on the rain-curtained highway. My mind has been too busy spinning, trying to put together a puzzle with too many missing pieces to see the whole picture. And Trip's knuckles have been turning white from gripping the steering wheel.

His stress, it seems, comes in waves.

Off and on.

Up and down.

"There's an ATM here." Trip nods towards the barred window of the gas station, at a sign that says, ATM inside! He looks calm again, but I can't tell whether this is true or just a convincing front.

I look from the sign to him. "Okay..."

"Withdraw whatever you can from your account." He shifts and grabs his gun from where it was wedged between his door and seat. "We need cash. Debit cards, they can track."

I want to correct him. No, no, no. Not we. You need cash. Remember? I don't have a say in this. But I bite my tongue.

"Alright." I nod slowly. "But won't they track it now if I withdraw money here?"

"This is where the trail will end for them."

I watch him tuck the gun in the back of his waistband, and for a second I don't move. "You're not going to do anything... horrible—" my eyes shift to him "—are you?"

Trip shoots me a look—a flash of frost. "Just do what I said."

I don't like this. There are too many things I wouldn't put it past Trip to do.

With a deep breath, I open my door.

The rain comes down in buckets. Ice cold. Biting. And though it is a short distance, my rush to the gas station door does little for me. By the time I am swinging the door open and stepping inside, I am shivering, my coat and my hair—down to my scalp—completely drenched.

Trip curses behind me. Turning, I find him shaking water from his hands, his eyes quite unhappy. Without a coat, he has managed to soak himself to the bone. His shirt clings to him like a second layer of skin, and for a moment he just stands there, looking like a half-drowned cat.

He must catch the smirk tugging my lips because his eyes harden the second they land on me.

My smirk drops.

The ATM. Right.

Turning back around, I scan the place. My eyes touch upon the old wrinkly man sitting behind the counter who keeps a narrow watch on us both. His lips pucker as he spits—into a can or something, I hope—on the floor. Besides that, he doesn't move or speak.

I spot the ATM machine in the very back, and with Trip following close behind, I start for it.

A couple of the fluorescent lights flicker over our heads. And something likened to boiled peanuts chokes the air. The scent is so strong it tickles the back of my throat, making me cough. My shoes stick to the linoleum each step I take as I pass the small, cluttered soft drink and coffee station along the front of the building.