Page 7 of Twins for the Enemy

I turn the compass in my hand, watching the needle tremble before continuing to point north.

"That's fancy," Callie says, plopping down onto the cot beside me. "How much is it worth?"

I close my fist around the compass, the clasp cutting into my palm. "No idea. Not much. It's a cheap prop from a movie set."

"Bo, I know five-year-old's who are better liars than you."

Bo is short for Little Bo-Peep. She gave me the nickname on my second day at the shelter after I witnessedher steal some cigarettes from another woman and I declined to smoke them with her. It's meant as an insult, but it's a better nickname than some of the other women get.

"If you get asked to clean at Richter's again, I wouldn't go," she adds when I don't say anything. "They got police crawling around."

I glance over at her, but her face is unreadable.

Paranoia has dominated my thoughts since I fled from Chicago two months ago, knowing anybody could be an undercover police officer. But with Callie, the paranoia is necessary.

She appears to be like me, where she needs to get paid under the table to avoid any paperwork. I don't know if she's hiding from the police like me, but I won't be throwing stones from my glass house.

So, it's possible she is being nice to forge a relationship with someone she has common ground with. But she could also be trying to snipe a job from me. We areplaying a game of survival of the fittest, and I may not be vicious enough to win.

"Did you steal that compass?" Callie asks.

I flush.

She must be thinking I took it from a job and stumbled on the truth. I shouldn't have taken it before I disappeared. Even when other girls my age were shoplifting and I wanted their approval, I didn't do it. It was too risky, too much like Neal, and I knew the guilt would follow me around.

But as I prepared to leave that man's mansion, I wanted something to remember our time. He had my name. I had his compass.

It turns out that wasn't necessary. Everything reminds me of him. A dim streetlight brings me back to the lamp on his bedside table. Whenever I make a bed, I flatten the creases while I remember how he thrust inside me with such intensity that it caused waves in the blankets. I dream of him at night, and I wakeup with my hands pressed between my legs, the ache between them deeper than I can reach.

"I have a new job that I should head out to," I say.

"Just apply to Kitty Den?" She rolls her eyes. "You don't need to be holier than thou. You'll earn more there than you are scrubbing floors."

"This one was a much better deal," I say. "They were willing to pay ten dollars an hour because it's a house they just bought, and they want it to be cleaned up before they move in."

"Ten dollars an hour?" she snorts. "That's too good to be true. If you get murdered just because you didn't want to suck off some club owner, you're getting exactly what you deserve."

"You'll come to my funeral, though, right?" I tease her, sliding the compass back into its pouch. "You'll make sure I'm cremated? I know you'll find adventurous ways to deal with my ashes."

"Hell yes," she says, a dreamy look crossing over her face. "I'll freeze them into ice cubes and serve you in a cup of iced tea to Kara."

I put my hand on her shoulder. "I always wanted to be a tall drink of water."

She plops back down onto her pillow, burying her face in it. In a way, she reminds me of Neal. The hard outer shell and the biting words, but underneath all of it is someone who is trying to just not get buried under the weight of the world.

I slide on my jacket and shove the pouch inside the pocket. It's all a big joke because we can't take any of it too seriously, or else we'll have to grieve the truth.

We're alone in the world. All those temporary, gasping, trembling connections will disappear, leaving only dreams.

And twin unborn babies.

The front door is open. Even in this small town, it's unusual to be so unconcerned with security, but it's propped open by paint cans, and the buzzing of a power tool echoes through the walls, so it must be part of the owner’s renovation efforts.

I knock on the door. If the only person in the house is the person using the power tool, they won't hear me, but I don't want to accidentally become a home intruder. The last thing I need is to be arrested for a crime and for the police to discover that I'm a fugitive.

I take a step in, glancing around to see if there is anybody else around. It's a gorgeous house. The wood flooring is a rich shade of brown with some scuff marks and scarring that give it some character. The exposed beams are stained a similar shade, while the white walls create a sharp contrast with the wood. Soaring ceilings make the house feel even larger without losing any of its intimacy.

My stomach growls, loudly proclaiming that I haven't eaten since 3 o'clock yesterday. I'd had enough money to eat ham sandwiches for lunch and dinner fora couple of weeks, but half of it disappeared to the other women in the shelter, and I had to finish the rest quickly before it molded. If I don't work today, I won't eat, so persistence is my only weapon.

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