The Duplicate

Chapter Twenty-one

Click, click, click, click—stops me in the hall. Tilting my head, I listen and try to pinpoint where the noise is coming from. My bare feet, chilled on the tile, start to move again as I follow the sound, padding towards the half closed door of the computer room.

I peek inside.

If the computer room has a ceiling light, I still have yet to see it on. The room is dark, except, of course, for the glow of the computer screens, but instead of websites and codes, this time the monitors are working together, like a giant television screen. A toothpaste commercial is playing, silently. And sitting in front of the screens, his back to me, bouncing the heel of his sneaker over one of the plastic legs of the computer chair—click, click, click —is Dax.

I push open the door. "Good morning."

He doesn't react as far as I can tell. His leg continues to bounce, and he doesn't turn his chair. Drawing closer, I catch the gleam of the clunky earphones on his head. That explains why he doesn't hear me as I stop beside him. He only gnaws away on his thumb nail and stares intently at the screens.

I touch his arm.

As if my hand is charged with electricity, Dax jumps, hands flying, flailing, knocking his earphones off his head. The squealing gasp he lets out makes me immediately take a step back and start apologizing. "Sorry, sorry, sorry, I'm sorry."

"Evette..." Dax's eyes roll to the ceiling. He collapses in his chair. "You scared the shit out of me."

"I'm sorry, I tried to let you know I came in."

Behind bright, glaring lenses, his eyes flutter over my face. After a moment of examining me, he finally asks, "How are you?"

"Fine." I hug my arms to my chest, letting my eyes drift to the woman on the screens. She can't stop smiling now that she bought that specific whiting toothpaste. "I'm sure the bruises look worse than they feel."

"They look pretty bad." Dax scratches his head and sits up. "Uh, do you need some ice? Let's get you some from the kitchen."

"No. I'm fine, thanks."

The commercial ends, and a newsroom and two anchors appear. Their lips move, eyebrows furrow. One of them, a man with perfectly gelled hair, fumbles with his papers.

"Are you sure? How about some breakfast? Where's Triple?"

"In the bedroom," I say, but distantly. My eyes are fixed on the screens, the strip of words along the bottom. Suspected Terrorist Spotted Again. I step forward. "Let me hear that. What are they saying?"

Dax's leg starts bouncing again. "Huh?"

The newsroom disappears and a pretty reporter takes up the screens. Blue and red lights from police-cruisers flash over brick walls of an alley behind her. It's the same alley I was standing in a few hours ago. There's the back door to the club. The one light bulb. The trash bin.

My eyes flash down at Dax, heart quickening. "Unplug the earphones. Let me hear it."

Dax hesitates, seeming to act like he doesn't know what I'm talking about. But when my eyes flash down at him again in urgency, he gives in. He reaches down and yanks his earphones' cord out from the computer.

The pretty reporter's voice fills the room.

"... attacked Mister Verbeck in the bathroom, exited the nightclub, and was intercepted by an off-duty police officer" —bullshit— "in this alley. The officer opened fire and may have wounded the man. After seriously injuring the off-duty police officer, the suspected terrorist was able to escape with his accomplice."