The Duplicate

Chapter Thirty-eight

None of us have touched our food, besides Noah. He happily shoves mashed potatoes in his mouth with his little spoon and tiny fingers. That's his whole world at the moment, and I wish I could be so oblivious.

My face feels hot.

There are a million things I should have said, a million responses to pick and choose from that I have said, in the past. Yes, I'm a nurse. That would have sufficed. There couldn't have been a more opportune moment to spit it right in Trip's face, to show him everything he's accused me of thus far is wrong. I could have watched him bite and tear through his tongue to keep from lashing out. Or maybe he would have snapped, proving me right. I should have said it.

But I couldn't.

Guilt works its way up my gut and sits now like a heavy stone in my throat. Regardless of how much wine I guzzle, I can't swallow it—"Eve's a nurse"—and I can't wash away the feeling I do fit into this, the feeling I am part of Emulation. Part of the system. Vehemently wanting to believe it, defend it—"I think you're a fucking liar"—like Hound.

I don't want to think about it."It's that kind of thinking that has caused all of this. It's that kind of thinking that has made me nothing but Government property." But it's getting so much harder not to.

I force myself look at Trip.

He stares at the table. His chest continues to barely rise and fall with each shallow breath. He defended me when he could have let me try to fend for myself. He could have watched me flail, sink, and drown, try to explain, try to lie, struggle to evade the thought that he's right. I have blood on my hands. I have blood on my hands. I have blood on my hands.

A shaky gasp fills the room, and I realize it's mine. A pre-cry breath. Battling tears, I knock back the rest of my second glass and swipe for the wine bottle in front of me. I pour another.

Glug-glug-glug-glug.

Leah goggles at me.

Malcolm watches, too. "Well, good thing we have another bottle." He turns back to Trip. "Are there any other subjects I should avoid?"

Trip lifts his eyes to measure Malcolm. The thought of bailing crosses his mind. I see the nerves flit over his face. Fight or flight.

He doesn't move. "How long have you been in hiding?"

I almost drop the bottle setting it back on the table. Chin jutting in surprise and confusion, Malcolm shuffles his brain for a response. How long wasn't really the question, and all Trip is after is a reaction. He doesn't wait for an answer.

"What news agency did you work for?"

"David?" Malcolm glances aside. "I thought you didn't want to tell him."

Blood drains from Dax's face. When Trip's eyes bolt to him, he looks like he's ready to slither down his chair and hide under the table. He gives a quick shake of his head. "I, um, didn't."

"You told me," Trip says, "he's a journalist."

"Yes, so, I did tell you that."

"I was a journalist," Malcolm says, nodding, "if you'd call it that, for Government's Oasis news agency." I choke on my wine, and Trip's face blanks. "I spun stories. Obviously, not anymore, other than writing fiction of my own. You could say I've had plenty of practice. We've been in hiding for four years." Malcolm shrugs, sweeping a hand through the air. There we go. It's on the table. He's not bothered to say it, so I don't understand why Dax didn't say anything about it in the first place.