by Kate Norris
“I don’t see a Faraday cage,” Winnie called, “or an electrome—”
Her words were cut off when Beta rushed up behind her, grabbing her arms.
Winnie looked around the shed frantically—Beta was pulling at her—she must be trying to save her from something bad, but what?
Then she heard the snick of handcuffs clicking into place around her wrists, binding her hands behind her back, and finally understood what was happening.
Beta wasn’t trying to save her from danger—Beta was the danger.
Winnie realized immediately what her double must have planned, sure as if she’d conceived it herself.
Beta was going to turn her over to Hawthorn. Maybe he’d made some kind of threat. Or maybe Beta was just desperate to get their lives back to normal.
“Hawthorn needs a new subject now,” Beta said quietly, “with James gone.”
“You told him about me?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t have to.”
Hawthorn had found her so quickly, just like James knew he would—uncannily fast. Although, scientists were natural detectives, weren’t they? That was why Scott had asked for her help finding James in the first place.
“He came by yesterday when Father was out,” Beta continued. “Said it was nice to meet me—a trick. Of course, I didn’t know we were supposed to have met at the morgue.”
Winnie strained against the cuffs and tried to think. Beta had been in such a hurry to get them on that she hadn’t secured them very tightly. The left one seemed like it just might be loose enough to squeeze out of.
“So that’s that?” Winnie asked, hoping to keep her double distracted as she fumbled around behind her back. “Hawthorn knows about me, so you may as well hand me over?” She grasped the loose cuff in the fingers of her right hand and started to yank, ignoring the pain in her wrist.
“He said he can make the police think Scott did it—that Scott killed James.”
“And you believe him?” Winnie asked, but she was stalling. She didn’t think Hawthorn was the type of man who made empty threats. Still, there had to be another solution. “If you knew what it was like to be experimented on,” Winnie added bitterly, “you wouldn’t do this.”
“Oh, please. Working with Father couldn’t have been that bad.”
Beta had no idea. Being dragged out of bed, kept up all night. Father looking at her, but not seeing her, interrogating her about the splinters, taking copious notes on every one—but skipping simple small talk like “Hey, how was school?”
Beta didn’t know what it was like to watch Father at the breakfast table the morning after Winnie had been accidently shocked during their experiment the night before, eating his toast dry and drinking his coffee black like some kind of penitence. Even though Father wouldn’t meet her eyes, it was like she could read his mind.
I’m a monster. You’ve made a monster of me.
She had to break the silence to let him know it was okay, so she’d told him, “Next time, let’s try a Faraday cage,” making herself an accomplice in her own torment—because it was either that or be a helpless victim.
Winnie couldn’t do it again. She wouldn’t.
It had been bad enough with Father, but with Hawthorn? He’d had James’s body thrown in the Hudson like trash, and that was someone he supposedly cared about. He’d have no trouble disposing of Winnie.
“Hawthorn is a murderer,” she said.
“Exactly! That’s how we know he’s more than capable of hurting Scott. If you really cared about him, you wouldn’t fight,” argued Beta.
“That’s not true!” Winnie shouted. “Getting back home isn’t just for me. It’s to give my own Scott a chance. Prison is one thing, but my Scott is dead unless I go back. Let me try our experiment again! With what’s in your father’s lab, I’m sure I can make another attempt, and with me gone, Hawthorn won’t have anything to gain by threatening Scott.”
“Are you serious? Best-case scenario, you disappear, and I’m the one left with Hawthorn’s threat. Now that he knows about you, he is going to get his hands on a Winnie. If it can’t be you, he’ll come after me instead.”
Beta was right. But Winnie would rather it be her double. It was a ruthless thing to think, but it was easy to feel ruthless with her hands cuffed behind her back.
Not that it mattered. She was the one Hawthorn wanted.
“You’re safe from him in a way that I’m not,” Winnie said, “because you don’t see them.”
“You can’t really be that stupid, can you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Of course I see splinters!” Beta said.
Winnie was stunned.
“I just know better than to tell people about it.”
“But . . . really? Not even Father?” she asked, so surprised by this revelation that she momentarily stopped trying to yank her wrist free from the cuff. “Or Scott?”
She’d been so sure that not seeing splinters had caused the differences between them. But now . . .
“Not anyone. I know I’m a—a freak. No one else needs to know.” Beta frowned. “I told Mama once,” she said, “a long time ago.” The far-off memory made her fade into herself for a moment. “She said to ignore them, and not to talk about it again.”
Mama had been open enough about her gift once to tell even Schrödinger. Something had taught her that she should never do that again. It must have been a hard lesson.
So, she’d wanted to spare her daughter that pain. How could Mama have known that this command would plant the seed of such self-loathing in the girl?
Even Winnie had at least been able to share her ability with Father.
“Oh, Winnie—”
“Then you come here, and suddenly we’re all in danger,” Beta continued angrily, cutting her off. “Suddenly, Nightingale isn’t the career break of a lifetime for Father and Scott, it’s some shadowy threat—but Hawthorn was never a problem for us until you came along. I get too close to you and my nose bleeds, my forehead splits open—and ever since you got here, I see splinters all the time! Every day!”
That must be why Winnie had stopped seeing them. Both of them being in one world had caused some kind of interference, blocking Winnie’s ability and flooding her double. It almost made Winnie feel bad for Beta—or it would have, if the girl hadn’t handcuffed her.
“But somehow,” her double continued, “you’re the one we have to sacrifice everything to protect. And Scott will do it, too. He’s too good for his own good. He’ll put himself at risk for you, but enough is enough. I won’t let him—and if you cared about anything except yourself, you wouldn’t either. So, sit down,” Beta said, gesturing at the stool, “and let me tie your ankles.”
Winnie’s double was a terrible funhouse mirror that showed her not squat and fat or stretched too thin, but stripped bare. Jealous, and broken, and capable of terrible betrayal.
This was the reflection of her own selfishness, wasn’t it? When Winnie got there, Scott warned her that her presence put their world in danger. But her only concerns had been self-preservation and saving her own Scott.
Could she really be surprised that her double only cared about doing the same?
Winnie continued trying to pull her wrist free. She was making progress, slowly, until the cuff hit the lower joint of her thumb. The tight metal began to tear into her knuckle. Winnie fought to keep the pain off her face.
But trying to free her hands—it wasn’t working. Winnie began to pant as she realized she wasn’t going to be able to pull the cuffs off. They were too tight after all. She was trapped, and soon she’d be caged.
Would Hawthorn’s experiments be like Father’s, or completely different? How long would it be until her body gave out like James’s had? Or would her ability allow her to endure Hawthorn’s experiments for months—even years?
Beta took a few quick steps over to the wall and grabbed a shovel that was hanging there. “Sit,” she said again, waving the shovel in Winnie’s direction. “Now.”
“If you hit me with that thing, you might hurt yourself too,” Winnie warned her, but her double seemed desperate enough to try anything.
Beta glared at Winnie. “Just sit. It’s over. Hawthorn’s already on his way.”
No. This wasn’t happening. Winnie’s eyes darted back and forth. If she let herself get tied down, it was over—but how could she possibly escape? Beta was standing between her and the door. It would be hard with her hands cuffed behind her back, but if Winnie could push past her—get free of the shed—then she would at least have a chance.
“What’s Scott going to think?” Winnie asked harshly. “He won’t forgive you.”
“He won’t know,” Beta said, even though the threat made her eyes wide with fear. “Hawthorn promised.”
“I think we both know he will.”
It was a bluff, but the shovel sagged in Beta’s hands, the head of it dipping down toward the dirt floor as she contemplated the awful possibility of losing Scott’s love.
Winnie took her moment.
She rushed at Beta, shoving into her with her shoulder since she couldn’t use her hands. The force of the impact sent them both flying. Winnie watched Beta’s arms pinwheel for balance as she stumbled backward herself.
Winnie tripped over the shovel that had been in Beta’s hands a moment before, and landed painfully on her back, on top of her cuffed hands, wrenching her shoulders and knocking her head against the dirt floor, hard.
She saw Beta fall.
She saw Beta hit her temple on the corner of the workbench. A glancing blow.
Winnie struggled to get up—she knew her double would be back on her feet in a moment, blocking her way again. It was difficult with her hands cuffed behind her back, but Winnie managed to stagger to her feet.
But when she did, Beta was still on the floor. Just lying there. Had she been knocked unconscious when she hit her head? Maybe that was why the blow hadn’t hurt Winnie too—maybe when she was knocked out, it severed whatever connection existed between them.
Winnie eyed the door. How much time did she have before Hawthorn came to collect her? Was he waiting for some signal from Beta, or was he already on his way? She should go quickly, she should go right now—
But Winnie couldn’t leave without checking on her double.
“Winnie?” she asked, approaching cautiously and nudging the girl with her foot.
Beta didn’t move.
“Are you all right?” Winnie whispered, dread thick in her throat.
She nudged her double’s shoulder harder, and the girl’s head lolled bonelessly.
Winnie couldn’t bend over to take her pulse with her hands cuffed, but she didn’t need to. Her eyes fixed on the spot where Beta had hit her head. It was concave, and deeply purple.
Winnie stumbled back in horror.
That face, that ground, that awful dent in her skull. Winnie recognized this—it was what she’d seen that morning.
Her eyes unfocused. Her eyes blank.
Winnie understood now.
It wasn’t her own death she had seen in that splinter. It was Beta’s.
It was Beta’s.
It was Beta’s.
Her stomach heaved. She was afraid she’d be sick.
What had she done?
And what could she do now?
PART THREE
In each of us there is another whom we do not know.
—Carl Jung
CHAPTER THIRTY
Winnie would have to bury the body. Leaving it above-ground, where she could see it, where anyone could see it, where the smell—
She cut off the thought, breath trembling.
She needed to get out of there. Hawthorn was on his way. Was it already too late to avoid him? She could try to pass for her double and claim the other her got away, but not if he saw the body lying there, the blood pooled purple under the skin, her eyes—oh god, oh god, her eyes—
The handcuffs. The first thing Winnie had to do was remove them. Her hands were stuck behind her back, but it was better that way—it forced Winnie to turn around while she searched her double’s pockets for the key. She didn’t have to look at her.
After a few minutes’ awkward fumbling, Winnie found the key and got the cuffs off.
She took a deep breath, then bent over and checked for a pulse. Nothing. Winnie closed her double’s eyes.
She had to bury the body.
If she gave herself simple commands, she could function.
Winnie picked up the shovel her double had dropped and held it in her wooden hands.
Dig a hole, Winnie, she told herself.
And so, Winnie started digging.
The dirt floor of the shed was packed tight, but at least the ground hadn’t frozen yet. She dug as fast as she could, through the screaming of the muscles in her back, as blisters formed and then burst on her palms and in the tender cradle of skin between her thumb and forefinger.
Finally, she had a hole—not as deep as it should be, but deep enough, and too much time had passed already. Hawthorn could arrive at any moment.
Drag the body to the hole, Winnie.
She grabbed the body’s slim ankles and pulled. She moved it inch by slow inch until it toppled into the shallow hole.
The dead eyes had come open and they stared up at her, but she couldn’t think of them as her double’s eyes or human eyes or even eyes at all or she would lose it. So, she didn’t bend down to re-close them. She covered them with a shovelful of dirt.
Before she finished filling the hole, she surveyed the shed to make sure she was getting rid of every trace of what had happened there. She wiped at the workbench with a bit of shop rag, then threw the rag and the handcuffs in with her double’s body.
Now fill the hole, Winnie.
And this part was easy, because she wanted nothing more than to get the body out of her sight. She wanted this much more than she wanted her head to stop throbbing or her hands to stop bleeding or her back to stop aching or for that strange dull roar in her ears to go away.
She tried to think past the awful present. As soon as the body was taken care of, she would quickly pack some of her double’s things, some food, then go. She didn’t know where. Anywhere. Away. Take James’s advice too late and flee the city.
Winnie hoisted shovelful after shovelful of dirt into the hole, moving mechanically.
Be a clockwork girl, she told herself. Feel nothing.
Once the hole was all full of dirt, she tamped it down with her feet, walking over it again and again, refusing to think about what lay below.
She was so focused on blocking it all out that she almost didn’t hear the footsteps approaching on the paving stone path outside the shed.
Winnie froze. Could it really be Hawthorn so quickly? Maybe it was Father. Did he know Winnie had stayed home from school? Maybe he was coming to check on her.
The prospect of speaking to the father of the girl she’d just buried was maybe worse than the thought of facing Hawthorn.
Winnie surveyed the shed. No one would guess what had happened there. All she had to do was pretend to be Winnie. Her hands were bloody, wrists bruised from the cuffs. If it was Hawthorn, it would be easy to explain her injuries—she and the Split-Winnie had fought; Split-Winnie had escaped—but what would she say to Father? There was no time to come up with a coherent lie. She would have to improvise somehow.
Winnie kept
the shovel in her hand. She couldn’t just rush at whoever walked through that door—her chance of being able to fight her way out of this was even worse than her chance of lying her way out—but she couldn’t bear to set the shovel aside and stand there totally defenseless either.
The knob turned, and the door swung open.
Winnie held her breath.
“Winnie? And Winnie? Are you out here?”
No.
No, no, no.
It was Scott.
Tears began to stream silently down her cheeks. She would have preferred almost anyone else.
“Jesus!” he exclaimed as soon as he saw her, then rushed to her side. “What happened to you? And where’s Winnie?”
Just the way he said that “Winnie” . . . she knew that he knew that she wasn’t his.
Could she lie about what had happened to her double? She wanted to—she had the same impulse for secrecy as always, the one she had so recently realized her double shared—but all she could think about was the desperation on her double’s face as she hissed that no, she never told anyone about the splinters.
A lie now would doom Winnie to lie forever.
And Scott deserved the truth, although she wished more than anything that she had a different truth to give him.
Winnie looked down at the ground, where her double was buried. She spoke her confession to the dirt.
“She’s dead,” Winnie said, her trembling finger pointing at the ground. “She’s there. I—it was an accident.”
“What?” His eyes darted back and forth between Winnie’s face and the spot on the ground where she was pointing. “You killed her? You’re not making any sense.”
“She was going to turn me over to Hawthorn. I pushed her—trying to escape—and she hit her head.”