Page 77 of Killer of Mine

“I don’t know how Maxwell did it, but I’m certain he did. This is why she was lying to us. She’s not protecting her father.”

“She’s protecting her sister,” River says.

Before we can figure out what to do with this information there’s a knock on the door.

A tech with silver rimmed glasses and short spiky hair pokes her head inside. “We’ve got a lock on the car. Uniforms were nearby, they’re there now.”

I step forward but she shakes her head, her eyes creasing in a grimace. “He’s not there. It, uh, doesn’t look good.”

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Oz

THE FREYA WHO’S not Freya looks down at me. Cloudy green eyes study me like I’m a lab animal. She’s got the same freckled face as Freya, the same ginger curls that drop like a churned-up waterfall down past her shoulders. It’s not her though. It’s notourFreya.

I’m in a warehouse. The space is cold and damp. The large open area is pretty much empty apart from a table with chains hooked round it a few feet away.

Sweet Jesus, I’m trying not to think too hard about that table.

My body is still heavy from the drugs. I push against the concrete, inching myself up the metal beam my hands are tied behind. The room spins as I move, and I swallow the urge to vomit. I tilt my head back. The cold metal helps push away the grogginess.

The Freya who’s not Freya is still studying me.

“What’s your name?” I ask, my voice a little slow. Each breath an effort.

She cocks her head. “Angelica.”

“No,” I say.

“Yes.” She’s stubborn, like a child having a tantrum.

I lean forward as far as my binds allow so my face is inches from hers. “You’re not her.”

“Aren’t I?” she asks. “I’m never really sure.”

I grit my teeth. “What is that supposed to mean?”

She pushes out of her crouched position and circles me. She trails her finger around the beam like in her head she’s on some sort of carousel ride.

“He raised us as one. Did she tell you that?” She shakes her head. “Of course not, she likes to pretend she’s only one person when actually she’s two. She’s me and her and I am her and me.”

My head is still fuzzy but I’m pretty sure that’s not why this woman sounds insane. Like actually, potentially clinically insane. “So, you’re Angelica,” I say, deciding to play along.

She smiles and drops to sit cross legged in front of me. “You can see me though, can’t you?”

I give a slow nod.

“How do you do it?”

“Tell you apart?”

She bobs her head up and down. “No one else ever could. I used to get worried the teachers would catch on. That I’d do something she wouldn’t do, and they’d know and then he’d be angry and not let me out again.” She runs a fingertip down my leg, her nail scratching on the denim of my jeans. “I liked being let out.”

Her finger climbs back up my leg, over my chest, only stopping when she reaches my neck. “I’m supposed to cut you here.”

I go still.

She slices her nail across my throat. A sharp scratch tingles in its wake. “He’s shown me lots of times, but I still can’t do it.” She smiles again. “That’s why you’re here though. I’m going to fix it.”