Page 34 of Twins for the Enemy

I walk through the mansion. The back door is in a room that branches out from the walk-in pantry. By the time I step out through it, I’ve warmed up again, and the cold air slices against my face.

I should have gone running. I told myself I wasn’t going to care about her—I wasn’t going to care if she could see her deer. But here I am, a fucking moron with no spine and a shovel.

The snow is the heavy kind, but the weight doesn’t hit me until the sun is rising and I’m nearly out of steam. I let out a huff of breath, watching the condensation form a small cloud beforedissipating.

I’ve thought often about reversing time. To save Olivia. To save Ellie. To be face-to-face with Olivia one more time and apologize for not loving her enough.

But lately, all I think about is preventing Farah from setting that fire.

We’d still have our night together, but she’d never have gone to the Bettiol store. Everything would be different. I could forgive her for the arson, but I can’t forgive that my sister was collateral damage. I’m obligated to hate her, and I’m not going to renege on my responsibilities. I owe this to Ellie.

I carve out a small, igloo-like area near the cherry blossom tree. It’ll create decent camouflage and keep her warm while she watches the deer.

My hands are soaked to the bone, so cold that it takes some effort to take my hand off the shovel handle. I look back over the path I created. I should regret it, but I can’t.

It’s always that way with her.

I step back into my house. I pull my gloves off and rub my hands against my pants, but there’s still a tingling numbness. Farah should be eating breakfast now, sticking to her schedule to get a peek of the deer. I don’t need her to turn shoveling snow into something sentimental, so I move quickly through the kitchen and start my work calls. I won’t give her a chance to give me those injured fawn eyes that turn liquid-soft at the smallest act of consideration.

It’s probably for the best she’s going to prison after this. Out in the world, men would take one look at her and try to twist her into whatever they wanted.

I blow out a breath, jaw tight. I don’t want her to suffer for the sake of it. I’m not a monster.

But she tipped the scales too far. Too deep into a world where good people get hurt and the guilty walk free.

Nothing Ellie said or did would’ve changed what happened. She was always going to get burned.

But I can control what happens now. I can turn the wreckage into something useful—take down the one who did this to her. I owe her that much.

I kick the snow off my shoes and walk through the pantry into the kitchen. I’m prepared to see her—legs twisted around the stool in a way that accentuates her thigh muscles and a spoon gliding out of her mouth, followed by the tip of her tongue, tasting some morsel on the corner of her mouth.

I stop in the kitchen.

She’s not here.

She’d usually be eating by now. The deer should be coming around in the next thirty or forty minutes, so she’s either going to miss breakfast or miss seeing the deer, and both are important for her.

From my research, the first trimester is the most dangerous. It’s not just for the babies, but the risks of changing hormones in the mother, ectopic pregnancy, and a lowered immune system.

She could have caught any kind of infection at her brother’s apartment. It’s likely, considering his lack of giving a shit about anything other than his next high.

I try to remain calm as I take the steps two at a time to get to the second floor. I take long strides to her hallway. I see the doorless entrance to the room and look into it.

She’s run away again. The most prolific and most irritating escape artist since Houdini.

Then I see her. My chest clenches.

Her foot is visible near the bed’s leg while her calves are twisted in an unnatural way.

I rush to the other side of the bed, finding her on her stomach with her legs in an awkward position. I drop onto my knees and grip her hip, ready to check for injuries.

Her head whips around, her eyes wide.

“What the hell?” she asks. “Why are your handsso cold?”

“What are you doing on the floor?” I demand. “I thought you’d fallen.”

“I’m not an eighty-year-old.” She rolls onto her back, causing my hand to graze against her stomach. “I woke up early and couldn’t fall back asleep, so I started doing some push-ups to try to tire myself out. It worked and I fell asleep. I’ve been building up the energy to get up for the last half hour.”

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