by S. M. Soto
For the remainder of the tour, I try to ignore the stares and the discomfort of being the center of attention, paraded around in this wheelchair, while my entire body is wrapped in casts, but it’s not easy. I find myself keeping my gaze down to avoid any more of their stares.
My gaze accidentally snags on an angry pair of green eyes. The color is stark, just demanding to be noticed. The woman’s upper lip curls into a snarl, and I swear, even from across the room, I can hear her growl. I make a mental note that if I’m ever let out of here while she’s around, I need to stay far, far, away from her.
After leaving that overpopulated section, I’m shown the eating area, which is a cafeteria of sorts. It doesn’t look all that promising either. I imagine a prison cafeteria doesn’t look all that different from this one. Just as we’re leaving the cafeteria area and heading toward a different wing, we pass the main visiting area and, my gaze snags on a black form. I glance over my left shoulder, and all the hairs on my body stand at attention. The body from behind looks familiar. All too familiar. My eyes grow round when the person disappears around the corner, but not before glancing back over his shoulder once.
I feel the walls crumble around me.
I grip the handles of the wheelchair, trying to hold on as I process.
My heart hammers in my chest, my breathing ragged, as I try to rationalize who I just saw. Or at least, who I think I saw.
No, it can’t be.
What would he be doing here? There’s no way he’d know I’m a patient here, would he? It’s impossible. I refuse to believe he’d go to all these lengths to find me.
I slam my eyes shut, shaking my head as I try to pull myself together. In doing so, my mind automatically replays what I just saw.
There, in the clearest picture in my mind, is one of the Savages. In the flesh. It was him. I know it was. The second I saw the back of him, I had this feeling, but as he turned the corner and I got a glimpse of his profile, there was no mistaking the planes of his face or the confidence held in his broad shoulders.
That couldn’t be just a coincidence, could it?
Was I…hallucinating? I mean, they do have me on plenty of drugs, so it’s possible, but it looked so real. Hell, it felt so real.
Even if it were him, I try to rationalize what he would be doing here. I can only imagine one reason and just thinking about it sends a shiver of dread down my spine. He is back to finish what he started. That has to be the reason.
I shake my head, forcing the thought away. I chalk it up to me being crazy.
It’s not real.
It wasn’t him.
I have to believe that, or I’ll really start to go crazy in here. Maybe I was so focused on the night in question, I was starting to see things.
God, I hoped not.
The rest of the tour is much of the same, and quite honestly, it doesn’t inspire much confidence. I still don’t feel safe here, and I sure as hell don’t think I belong here. There is an obvious difference between the patients and me here in this facility.
Why am I the only one who can see it?
I try to push thoughts of the Savages and a possible doppelgänger out of my head, but it is an impossible feat. Every corner we turn, it now feels like I am being watched, but when I look around, there is never anyone there. I am being paranoid, I know this. I just don’t know how to make it go away.
All I know is I need to find a way out of this hellhole as soon as possible.
Past
Warmth vibrates recklessly through my veins thanks to all the alcohol I’ve consumed tonight. The party is still in full swing, Summer’s still on her childish bullshit, Vincent, Marcus, and Zach are scouring the crowd for who they want to fuck tonight. And Trent, he’s nowhere to be found.
My cell dings with a notification. My vision splits on the text message, telling me I’ve drunk way more tonight than I should’ve. It takes me a while to read it, but when I finally do, I toss my cup somewhere on the ground and shuffle toward the clearing of trees where everyone’s parked.
The jet is ready for takeoff.
My football buddy, Simon, offered to give me a ride earlier, since he’s the only person in all of Ferndale who doesn’t drink or do drugs. He’s the only fucker with his head on straight. I can finally get away from the bullshit for at least a few weeks before I leave this shit town for college, then hopefully, for good.
As I stumble through the woods, leaving the party behind me to get to Simon’s car, I spot a hunched form up ahead, sitting on a fallen tree trunk. It’s covered in moss, mostly hidden by the foliage surrounding it. My feet slow to a stop next to the person who’s hunched there, and when she turns, taking notice of my presence, my brows droop.
“Madison?”
She swipes at her cheeks. “What do you want, Sebastian?”
I could easily walk away, but for some reason, I don’t. I take a seat on the bark of the trunk next to her. She stiffens but doesn’t say anything.
“Nothing. Just trying to figure out why you of all people are crying.”
She turns to face me, angry eyes drilling holes into me. “What is that supposed to mean?”
I shrug. “You always seem happy. Like you got it all figured out. I mean, you can be a real bitch sometimes, but you’re not as miserable as everyone else here.”
She scoffs. “You know nothing about me, Seb. Don’t pretend you do. And if you’re looking for pussy, look elsewhere, because I’m not interested. One Savage is more than enough for me.”
I laugh, caught off guard by how blunt she is. “Believe me, I’m not interested.”
We sit in silence, and I know I should go. I don’t know if it’s all the alcohol thrumming through my system that convinces me to stay, but for whatever reason, I stay beside her.
“Do you think I’m a bad person?” she asks, as she stares out at the trees ahead of us. The moon gleams down, casting a silver glow around us.
I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, and I realize she’s crying again. The moon crystalizes the tear tracks on her face. “No, I don’t.”
“Then why do I feel like I am?” she chokes out, turning to face me, and for some reason, seeing the pain in her eyes, starts to eat away at the numbness coursing through my body. There’s so much pain hiding behind her gaze, it’s hard to look at.
“Call it intuition, I guess.” I shrug. “Whatever it is, Madison, you’re not a bad person. You’re just lost. I think we all are. Alma Perdida.”
“What does that mean?” she asks, sniffling.
I push to my feet, getting ready to leave. The last thing I want to do is keep Benedict Pierce waiting. “It means Lost Soul. And I think there’s a lost soul in all of us.”
With that, I turn, wading through the stray branches and pushing through the trees. My feet skid to an abrupt halt at the sound of her voice. “You’re a good guy, Sebastian. Sometimes I think you’re the only decent human left here in this fucking town.”
My jaw locks. “I’m not a good guy. And I probably never will be.”
“Can you do me a favor?”
I raise a brow, waiting for her to go on. “If something bad happens, can you protect her?”
Hesitating, I scratch at the back of my neck, suddenly confused. What the hell is she talking about, and how drunk am I?
“Protect who?”
“My sister.”
My frown deepens. “Why would you ask me that? Is she in danger?”
Madison shrugs. “No. I just…I don’t know.” She shakes her head, looking down at her feet. A shiver wracks her shoulders, and she wraps her arms around her body protectively. I glance around, trying to see if the trees are swaying, but there’s no breeze. It’s summer. There’s no way she can be cold. “You ever get the feeling that something bad is going to happen?” I shake my head, still not following. “I have that feeling, and I can’t shake it. I should probably stop drinking. Alcohol makes me paranoid. But it almost feels like…all the wrong I’ve done in my
life, it’s finally coming for me, and I don’t know how to stop it.”
My phone vibrates incessantly in my pocket, and I know it’s my father. I blow out a sigh and try to put her mind at ease. “I gotta go, but you should stop drinking. Get some water and go home, Madison.”
I turn to leave but hear her mutter more to herself than to me. “I can’t. There are still things I have to do.”
I jolt awake, sweat clinging to my forehead after that dream. Guilt slams into my chest, just like it always does when I have this dream. Because there are so many what-ifs about that night. What if I stayed and helped her while she was upset? What if I made Simon give me and Madison a ride home that night? She would’ve been far away from the woods. Far away from the kissing rock. Far away from death.
After Simon gave me a ride, I met up with Trent and Marcus at the house, passing off bottles of alcohol for the rest of that night. I’ve thought about this moment countless times in my life. What if I had Simon drop me straight off with my parents? What if I never gave them alcohol that night? Maybe then they all would’ve been clearheaded.
I’m not a good man. I’ve done things, covered up things, that I wish I wouldn’t have. All that’s done over the years is eat at my soul. Make me push my emotions aside and brace the numbness. Brace the façade that I don’t care—that I don’t feel anything.
Pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes, I try to rub the fatigue away. I’ve been holed in my office for the past few days, trying to take care of this clusterfuck of events. Trying to make sense of what’s happening.
I still don’t have any of the answers I need. Too many pieces are missing, too many unknown factors. I don’t know who is digging back into the case or why, and I don’t know what to make of Mackenzie or the games she’s been playing. Something niggles at the back of my mind, demanding to be heard.
I had to make a statement earlier this week on behalf of Vincent and the rest of the guys before Page Six, The Inquirer, or any other papers twisted the situation. I’ve kept Mackenzie’s name and identity out of the press. Not that she deserved any of my protection at this point, but I can’t find it in me to throw her to the wolves.
I found out the hard way that she was, indeed, alive. The news came like a blow to the chest. I wanted to see that she was alive and well with my own two eyes, despite the mess that had transpired between us. The issue was, she was taken to the Redwood Memorial Hospital, but because her injuries were so extensive, she had to be transferred to St. Joseph’s Hospital in Eureka. It didn’t escape my notice that if Vincent was never airlifted back to LA, they would’ve been recovering in the same hospital.
The staff wouldn’t give Dan and me any information other than news that she was stable. Her parents wouldn’t allow anyone to see her, so that meant I had to call daily to make sure she pulled through. The last time I spoke to the head nurse, she hesitated when telling me that Mackenzie was moved to another facility, and that was all she could tell me. I haven’t been able to locate her since. That’s what scares me the most, my need to still know where she is at all times.
Glancing down at the bright screen, I move the cursor, reading over the reports once more. Zach’s home was broken into while we were in Vegas. Nothing was taken like it would’ve been in a regular robbery. Instead, his office was trashed and the safe left open, but nothing of importance taken. There were no fingerprints, no footage, and none of the neighbors remember seeing anything suspicious that night.
Deep in my gut, I know it was her. I don’t know how she managed to get in and out without leaving one fingerprint behind. I don’t know what the hell she would want with Zach or with anything in his safe. I think back to the night of the poker game when she was gone for a while.
Was she staking out the place? It would make sense if she took his money or any of his valuables, but that’s just it, she didn’t.
From what we can tell, she didn’t take anything valuable at all.
So, what did she take?
What was her endgame?
The guys want to believe so badly that she’s a gold digger, but if she was, wouldn’t she have taken the good shit and run off? Why trash his office and leave everything of value behind? It doesn’t make sense.
Zach is pissed. Trent is being secretive, and Marcus is doing damage control, just as I am, trying to find a fucking solution to this mess. And Vincent has been oddly quiet during this whole process. He’s back in Ferndale for the time being, recovering with his parents, who he loathes. Another suspicious act in itself.
After his outburst at the hospital, Vincent hasn’t mentioned Mackenzie’s name. I didn’t tell any of the guys she’s alive and well. The news outlets have reported vaguely that both victims in the accident have survived. That was answer enough for them.
I’m just about to call it a night when there’s a knock on the other end of the door, and Dan lets himself in. With a cloud of heavy silence surrounding him, he walks in with purpose, a thick file in hand, and he drops it onto the table before me.
“Everything is in there.”
I drop my gaze to the file and frown. Placing my hand over the manila folder, I start sliding it toward me, but pause at the sound of Dan’s deep voice.
“There’s a lot to take in, but remember, not everything is always as it seems. And I suggest you read this before going any further.”
That frown deepens when he drops Mackenzie’s thick stack of papers onto the table next to the file. I haven’t so much as opened it since the night this clusterfuck started. So much has happened, and I haven’t had a chance to do shit, let alone read whatever lies she’s surely written in there.
“Where the hell did you get this?” I demand through a narrowed gaze.
Dan shrugs, a cold gleam in his eyes. “I figured someone should read it at least. You had it sitting on the coffee table.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to berate him, but I honestly don’t even have the strength to do so. I’ve been up for almost thirty hours now and the short ten-minute nap I took earlier isn’t going to cut it. My brain isn’t processing the way it normally does.
My lips thin into a grim line. “Fine, is there something you’d like to share before I open either of these?” I ask with a cold, underlying tone.
Dan shakes his head, keeping his lips sealed on his findings. “You know where to find me.”
With that, he departs, leaving me to the file and a tense silence. With a heavy sigh, I eye the file. I’m a numbers and facts guy. It only makes sense that whatever is in that file will most likely make the most sense because it’s factual. But whatever is written there, in the thick stack? That could go either way.
I want to know the truth. I need it. But a part of me isn’t quite ready to despise Mackenzie any more than I already do. But at this point, I was sure there was no avoiding it.
Rubbing my bottom lip contemplatively, my gaze darts between the two stacks on my desk. With a sigh, I gravitate toward Mackenzie’s and turn to the first page.
I’m not disappointed.
Not in the least.
In fact, I’m speechless.
Three minutes.
Three minutes or more is all it takes to create life.
Nine months that life grows into years of a beautiful creation.
Seconds, minutes, days, years—I had it all with my sister. The sibling I shared more than blood with. We shared the same thoughts, the same birthday, and the same face. There wasn’t much we didn’t share. She was me, and I was her. And I’d like to believe one day that could’ve been enough for our relationship.
So, you see, seconds, minutes, days, years—it doesn’t matter how long you’re given because all it took was one night and she was taken from me. Murdered in cold blood. Ripped from me forever.
Twins don’t just share the same face or similar DNA. They share the same soul, the same life. You can’t kill one without killing the other. And that was the mistake they made.
They left me alive.
And written from here on is all the proof you’ll need to find them, to incarcerate them. To make them pay for sins that are long overdue.
My name’s Mackenzie Wright, and this is the story—scratch that—these are the events that led up to the murder of my sister. The story of five wealthy young men getting away with murder.
A deep pit settles in my stomach when I stop reading to flip the page. I know deep down, whatever I read on the next page, will change everything I know about Mackenzie and everything I’d ever believed about us.
Suddenly, every mistake I’d ever made before now slams into me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, and I’m suddenly transported back in time. Nine years ago, to be exact. The night that could’ve changed everything.
Past
I’m just finishing up another lap when I feel a looming presence near the other end of the pool. I flip, using my feet to push off the tile wall, and turn in the pool. Wiping the water out of my eyes, I pause, staring up at a disheveled Vincent. He’s standing at the lip of the pool, and he looks like he wants to jump in and never resurface.
There’s a heaviness in the air. I use swimming as a way to process and compartmentalize. Some people meditate; some people turn to drugs and fucking women. I like to swim. That is my vice. But the clear head I just had a few seconds ago is now gone. With a sigh and a silent curse, I climb out of the pool.
“How bad is it?”
When he doesn’t say anything, and I turn around to look at him, I know it’s bad. Ever since I’ve been back from vacation, the guys have been acting different. It looks like now I’ll finally figure out why.
After showering and dressing, I meet Vincent inside the house. My father’s study is dark, which means he and my mother are gone, giving Vincent and me privacy.
“We messed up.” The pallor of his skin is white. Normally, Vincent doesn’t feel much or show much. He’s about as numb to everything as I am. I may not have had the greatest childhood, but Vincent? He probably had it the toughest growing up. He was victimized by his nanny as a child, unloved, hated by his parents, always up to no good, almost like he couldn’t help himself. He enjoyed chaos—thrived in it.
