Page 9 of Twins for the Enemy

"The bedroom," he says. "It will be the perfect starting point. Close enough to the front door that you can sneak out."

I stop, my hand freezing in my hair as I try to get the knots out. "You do remember me. How did you find me?"

"Private investigators," he says.

There is a missing weight to his words, like he's keeping a few words tucked away to keep the scales even. He must be. I haven't used any credit cards and only used burner phones, so it's hard to believe there isn't more involved. I could demand more answers, but the result is the same regardless.

"Why?" I ask. "Why would you track me down?"

"A bigger question is why you're doing a job that requires you to use toxic chemicals," he says. "It's reckless and irresponsible."

"I can decide what's good or not good for me—"

"I'm not talking about your free will." He glances down at my abdomen. "I'm talking about the health of the twins."

One of my knees buckles. He lurches forward to catch me, grasping my arm to steady me. Heat rushes through me. I slowly stand up straight, pulling my arm away.

"How do—how do you know about that?" I ask.

"Private investigators," he repeats. "You should have told me."

I stare at him. "They're not yours."

"Whose are they?"

"John. My boyfriend."

"John Doe?" he asks. "It's perfectly timed when we slept together. When you were a virgin."

"I slept with someone after you. I mean, I slept with John. We met right after." I force a smile. “It was better with him. Less abrupt.More romantic.”

“Interesting that for the qualities you listed, you didn't mention his skill." He tilts his head. "Disappointment? Or imagination?"

"John is real," I say firmly. "He works as—as a painter."

"You saw the paint cans outside?" he asks. "Well, tell John that you're coming back to Chicago with me. I need to know my children are getting the best care."

I scowl, crossing my arms over my chest. My stomach growls again, loud enough for him to hear. He doesn't react. It stings.

"I'm not going anywhere with you," I say. "I have a life here."

"Do you?" he asks. "Or is it just a life where you think the police won't find you? I have enough influence to ensure you get charged with attempted murder for the woman you injured during the Bettiol fire."

The blood drains from my face. "How do you know about that?"

"Everyone knows in Chicago. Next time, I'd suggest you don't hurt a pretty woman. They tend to get significant screen time."

"What happened to you?" I hiss. "You were so nice when we first met. Now, you're threatening me?"

"Yes."

I anxiously brush my fingers through my hair. My left hand gets stuck in the knots.

"You're a whole lake of assholes, aren't you?" I ask.

"Nah. More like a fast-moving stream—doesn’t look that dangerous till you’re drowning in it," he says. "I have my plane waiting for us. You can come with me or wait for the police to come and arrest you."

The night we'd met, his eyes reminded me of dark roast coffee, the warmth spreading throughout me. Now, they're cold and, from a distance, black.

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