If you can see me, Mom...Gramps... Please close your eyes.
“Darling? Is that you?” A woman’s voice echoes from the darkness, startling Claire. Of all the fears gripping her mind, none involve the presence of others.
“Yes, my love. It’s me,” Malcolm says. “I have a surprise for you.”
“So do I,” the woman says.
Chapter Fifty-Two
A light flicks on in the basement, illuminating photographs placed around the room like an art exhibit. Dozens of glossy images hang from the ceiling on strings, others are propped up on pieces of furniture draped with sheets.
For a brief moment the images fill Claire with joy: She sees her mom as a child—six or seven years old, wearing a rainbow-striped bathing suit, running through a sprinkler. Mom in her ’80s teenage glory, sporting puffy bangs and fluorescent stretch pants. Mom as an expectant mother, smiling down at her large, protruding belly.
Soft music begins to play: Beethoven, the Moonlight Sonata.
A machine hums. A square light shines on the wall. A projector, Claire realizes. She gasps at the first image, feeling as though she’s been kicked in the stomach: Mom as a teenager, sitting naked atop a bed, her legs spread-eagled, a distant look in her eyes.
“Tell me you love me,” a male voice instructs from off camera.
“I love you,” Mom replies, her voice robotic.
The camera zooms in on her vagina as her fingertips trace the lips, spread them open then enter in.
Claire looks away. Malcolm grasps her chin, forces her to face the screen, seeming unable to move his own eyes from it. “Watch,” he commands, sounding part domineering, more mesmerized.
A man’s voice, “That’s it. More...”
Claire keeps her eyes on the edges of the screen, absorbing the film through peripheral vision and tears. She wants to close her eyes, but feels she can’t. Or shouldn’t.
Mom... What happened to you?
“Deeper,” the man says. Mom’s middle finger is lost in her vagina. She slides it back and forth in her crevices, caressing slowly then faster, faster. Harder.
The man moans then says, “In your mouth.” The camera pans up, zooms in on Mom’s face as she licks then suckles her fingers. The camera wobbles then focuses on an erect penis. A faint whimper sounds before a strong hand pushes Mom’s head down to suck it.
The camera pans back up. A man’s face: Malcolm, younger.
Claire’s horrified eyes look away as the current version of the madman grasps her arm tighter. She realizes then that the moans she heard weren’t only from the film, but from HIM.
Malcolm’s head swivels in ecstasy as he savors the film as though reliving it.
The film stops, but the music plays on.
Then a figure emerges from the shadows of the room—a woman, around Claire’s age or slightly older. Her wispy, long hair is so blonde it nearly glows. Her cheeks are caved in and her knees seem to bulge from pencil-thin legs below her flouncy, short dress. Every bit of her is incredibly frail—like a cancer patient dressed for the prom.
Malcolm strokes himself as the woman nears then pauses. “Wait—why are you wearing... How did you get out of bed?”
She smiles sweetly. “It doesn’t matter now. I’ve missed you.”
Seeing her face, Claire trembles, lightheadedness grasping her as Malcolm and the woman come together, seemingly in a world of their own. She and the woman look so alike, they could be related. They share a similar facial structure and height, the same green eyes.
Claire tries to imagine the woman with more weight on her frame and darker hair; the similarities are striking. If Malcolm is Grandpa’s cousin and she and the woman look alike... Then are the woman and Malcolm...related?
The woman presses her lips to Malcolm’s and kisses him hungrily, sending waves of nausea through Claire’s stomach. Then, the woman grasps Claire’s hand.
Terrified, Claire peers again at her face. Their eyes meet.
Trust me, Claire hears.
Or had she? No words were exchanged, yet she understands.
Claire wonders why she’s seducing Malcolm this way. Are they a couple? She observes Malcolm’s shifted disposition; he’s quickly gone from maniacal to wanting. It must be the woman’s strategy.
Though unsure what to believe, Claire nods at the woman, confirming they are in this together.
“Come,” the woman says aloud, leading Malcolm away from Claire and toward a nearby bed. Malcolm glances at Claire, hesitating. “It’s okay, she’s coming, too.”
“I...am,” Claire adds, mirroring the woman’s soft tone.
“Pretend,” the woman whispers in her ear.
Claire takes a breath. Contrary to her thoughts, she looks straight into Malcolm’s eyes as though she’s seducing Hank. She squints slightly, pouts her lips, traces them with her tongue. She steps toward him, so close she can feel his breath. Malcolm appears uncertain, but Claire can hear his breath growing louder, faster. Pressing her breasts against his chest, she kisses his neck. He lets out a soft moan.
“No. I can’t—” he starts.
Claire plunges her tongue inside his mouth, trying to ignore the flavor, unsure if the rottenness she tastes is real or perceived. His erection presses against her leg as he reciprocates.
It’s working, she thinks, hoping maybe somehow the other girl can read her thoughts.
Yes, it is, Claire hears in her head.Follow me.
Together, they guide Malcolm to the bed. Claire continues kissing him while the woman positions his rear at the bedside, shifts him to a prone position. He hesitates, seeming curious. Claire takes his hand, puts it down the front of her shirt and inside her bra. Again defenseless, he lies fully down.
“Isn’t this what you always wanted, my love?” the woman asks him. She removes his shirt, suckles his nipple.
“Yes, darling, yes.” Malcolm’s voice rises, euphoric.
With her eyes, the woman directs Claire to his pants, cueing her to remove them. As she does, the woman kisses Malcolm harshly on the mouth, playing her hands over his naked torso.
Suddenly, looking at Malcolm lying naked on the bed, Claire knows what to do, as though she’d conjured the plan herself. While the girl strokes his penis and speaks to him softly, Claire kisses his lips, fighting the urge to gag, and covers his eyes with her hand as she strokes his forehead.
With her peripheral vision, Claire watches the woman pull black straps with metal buckles up from each side of the bed. Restraints.
Chapter Fifty-Three
“No!” Malcolm exclaims as she tries to secure the straps. His body jerks and writhes, pushing the woman and the straps away, sending Claire to the floor.
Claire lands with a thud, her butt bones throbbing upon impact. She turns to see the frail woman pounce on Malcolm as he moves from the bed to a standing position. The two grapple with each other, wrestling. He’s taller and stronger than her, Claire notes, more than double her weight. Yet the girl’s relative youth and determination prevent him from knocking her down.
Claire scopes the area for an object—anything to use as a weapon. The desk chair. She rushes over and grasps it; though not terribly heavy, the corners are sharp.
As Malcolm raises the woman in the air, like lifting a small but defiant child, Claire jabs the foot of the chair into his lower back. Malcolm yowls in pain then turns to face her, his nostrils flaring. He pulls something from his pocket: the syringe he showed Claire in the car.
“One step and I’ll use it.” He braces the needle over the woman’s neck.
Claire stops in her tracks.
“Set the chair down.”
She pauses.
“Do it!”
With caution, she lowers the chair. Keeping her eyes locked on Malcolm’s, she notes something shiny in the woman’s hand.
Keep him distracted, she hears in her head.
Claire places her hands in the air, palms toward Malcolm. “Okay. Anything you ask.”
“Anything?”
“Yes...anything. I promise.”
As Malcolm’s grip loosens, the woman reaches down below the mattress. When she resumes her position, she’s holding something metallic. A knife. Claire holds her breath; Malcolm doesn’t seem to have noticed. All four eyes are on her.
With her teeth clenched, her eyes defiant, the woman raises the knife into the air then swiftly back down behind her, plunging it into Malcolm’s right eye, emitting a sound—part angry yell, part wounded cry.
He drops her then teeters backward, moaning angrily, swinging his arms toward them blindly, blood spattering them all.
Claire moves toward him and thrusts the heel of her shoe against his knee, hard. He wails then collapses, landing on top of her.
Under the weight of his heavy body, the taste of blood fills her mouth. His? Fingers clutch at her neck as they wrestle on the ground.
Help! I can’t breathe...
The tiny but strong woman springs toward them and gouges Malcolm’s cheek with her teeth. He topples off Claire as bits of his flesh drop from the woman’s bloodied mouth like regurgitated meat. His head rolls back. Gurgling sounds escape his lips.
Claire stands and reaches for her hand. “Let’s go!”
Chapter Fifty-Four
The pair heads for the staircase to the sound of Malcolm’s grunts from a short distance. Then closer...
“The light,” the woman instructs.
Claire spots the switch, flicks it off.
Claire clutches her arm. “You first.” The stairs that passed too quickly on her way down seem to take an eternity to climb on legs that feel like formless rubber beneath her. But they are almost there. Please God, let us make it out of here.
Silence fills the air behind them—seconds that seem longer.
Where is he? Claire mouths.
Then she feels it, his grip like a vice around her ankle.
“Let...me...go!” she screams.
Claire feels the woman moving back toward her, kicking wildly toward Malcolm.
He tightens his grasp around Claire’s ankle then pulls down—hard. She collapses, causing the other woman to falter.
“Agh!” Claire winces, her mouth pooling with blood. Her chin throbs from hitting the step, her tongue from biting it.
The three tumble down the stairs, wet and sticky with blood and sweat, Malcolm still clutching Claire. She continues flailing her body about so as not to allow a tighter hold.
Claire wrestles with Malcolm to the sound of animal-like grunts, drenched in his wretched smell, unsure whose blood she’s tasting. She sees the woman drawing near, clutching the syringe he’d dropped on the floor.
Stepping on his inner thigh, she presses it to the ground and opens his legs. She raises the syringe up then forces it down, plunges it deep into his bare testicles. She tries to push the end of the syringe to inject its contents, but he lurches away too quickly. She follows with a harsh kick in the same place.
He shrieks as he rolls away from Claire. But a moment later, before Claire can stand, his breath grows louder, angrier.
“Come!” She helps Claire to her feet. They dart up the stairs and into the kitchen, which is nearly as dark as the basement. She reaches into a drawer, searching for something. Keys?
Yes! Claire thinks. The notion of driving far away brings a rush of hope.
But the woman shakes her head. “He must have them all.”
Claire squeezes her hand. “We’ll find another way.”
Malcolm’s uneven footsteps sound from the stairway, staggered but growing louder.
In the dim light of the oven clock, the two women lock eyes. They open the cupboards, remove stacks of glass plates and bowls and smash them against the linoleum in the direction of the staircase.
Malcolm appears in the doorway. “You think...you can...get away with...this...” He moves toward Claire with something sharp, metal. A scalpel.
She chucks plates across the room. Malcolm barely flinches as they ricochet off his body then shatter on the floor.
He swings the surgical tool blindly in the air, his vision limited by darkness and injury. Stepping back, he flips the light on then starts toward them, seeming impervious to the glass shards under his bare feet. “Come...here...you...BITCH!” Malcolm lunges for Claire but loses his footing. An angry wail sounds as he falls backwards. His body hits the floor.
The woman grabs a knife from the counter and a heavy coat from a wall hook then guides Claire out the back door into the snowy yard.
“Where can we go?” Claire hopes her eyes will acclimate to the darkness, her body to the cold.
“Wait.” She pulls Claire behind a nearby tree. “Any moment...”
As they stand still, watching and listening, Claire tries to silence her loud breath. Rustling noises sound, something moving through the trees. As Malcolm emerges from the back door a pair of does, one slightly smaller than the other, runs swiftly past. Malcolm’s head snaps in the direction that the animals ran.
“Follow me.”
“Where?” Claire asks.
“A hunting cabin. It’s been a while, but I know how to get there. ”
Claire nods. “Wait, what’s your name?”
“Jill.”
“I’m Claire.”
“I know. I’ll...explain later. But now, we should hurry.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
They set off over the snow-topped earth by the light of the stars and full moon, dodging trees. Good thing it isn’t cloudy, Claire notes, or they wouldn’t see more than inches ahead. Please, let it stay this way...
She follows Jill, watching as her wispy hair flies about to movements more confident than her own. She wonders how Jill can not only falter so little, but run in dressy shoes. Her own shoes, though not made for trekking, have rubber soles, more support and—thank God—warm linings. How is Jill able to run period in her physical condition?
Once Claire gets the hang of it, the snow provides firm footing. A process of lifting and stepping—more like a fast march than running.
Noticing rustling sounds nearby, they pause and look around.
“It’s okay,” Jill says, listening. “It’s just animals.”
Animals, Claire thinks. Another danger to fear. Are there bears out here? Jill bends to adjust her shoes.
“Are your feet okay?” Claire asks. Before Jill can answer, she has an idea. Leaning on a tree for support, she removes one shoe then sock at a time and hands her socks to Jill. “Take them. My shoes are warm.”
Jill hesitates for a moment then puts them on. “Thanks.”
Claire looks back toward Malcolm’s house. They must be a half-mile or more away. “Where do you think he is?”
“I wish I knew. Let’s keep going.”
Claire’s mind is full of questions as they run on. Who is this woman she’s following, yet knows nothing about? She appears ill—with what? Who is she...to Claire? For the moment, Claire knows that Jill is right about one thing: keeping on the move seems vital. Malcolm’s enraged face flashes in her mind, adding sprint to her step.
Stopping for a few minutes had increased their chill, but it also allowed them to catch their breath. Running now feels good. Though the near-arctic air continues to sting at their skin, their bodies soon warm with perspiration. Greater relief comes with every moment away from him.
Finally, when it seems they’ve run for hours, Jill stops. She leans against a tall oak tree. “We’re almost there. Let’s take a minute.”
“Are you okay?” Though Claire is curious where ‘there’ is, she’s more concerned about Jill’s well-being.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine,” Jill says.
Claire pauses, hoping she’s right. One question burns inside of her. Nervous, but unsure why, she poses it. “Jill, I’ve been wanting to ask you. Who...are you?”
Slowly, Jill turns to face her, a smile glimmering in her eyes. She reaches out and touches Claire’s face with a chilled hand then stares for a long
moment as though absorbing her appearance, savoring it.
“I’m...your sister, Claire. We’re twins.”
Chapter Fifty-Six
“I’m... We’re...” Claire feels as though the breath has been sucked from her lungs. Is it possible? “How do you know?”
“I found photographs of our mother. Dawn, right?”
Claire nods. “The photos that were in the basement?”
“Yes, and others. Photos of us, just after we were born. We were so tiny and red. But there were no photos of both of us with Dawn—sorry, our mother. He is obsessed with her—always has been. After we were born, he sent you home to live with our mother and kept me a secret from...well, pretty much everyone. I think he kept me as some sort of prize, a way to lure her back into his life one day.”
Claire’s throat tightens. “Are you saying... Mom never knew about you?”
“I doubt it. We were delivered early, by C-section, and very, very small. And since he was her doctor, I’m sure he told her only what he wanted her to believe. It’s...how he works. Did our mother mention to you anything about having a sister? Giving birth to twins?”
Claire senses hurt and hope in Jill’s words. “No. If she did know about you, she never would have stopped searching for you. She was the most loving woman...”
A horrible thought crosses Claire’s mind “Did Malcolm tell you... Do you know that she’s—”
“Dead?” Jill nods. “He didn’t tell me, but I figured. How?”
“A car accident.” Claire recalls her session with Dr. Marsha, the man her mother planned to meet. Mentioning Malcolm’s probable involvement in the accident seems fruitless—at least for now.
Every detail of Jill’s story seems ludicrous, yet Claire can’t punch holes in it. She observes the details of Jill’s face. Their features aren’t merely similar, as she’d speculated, but...identical. And more than just seeing the sadness permeating in Jill’s eyes, Claire feels it, as her own.
In Her Shadow Page 17
