Skin and Bone: A Psychological Thriller

by T. L. Keary

  I don’t have a twin. I am one hundred percent certain of that. I’m an only child. My mother miscarried two babies after me and was eventually told it just wasn’t going to happen. My parents were good people. I had the most normal childhood ever. So I know with absolute certainty that I don’t have some long lost twin out there.

  Do people know when they have psychotic breakdowns? Because I’m one hundred percent certain I didn’t have one, that I never went back to Snohomish and I never filmed myself acting so creepy and strange.

  I’m certain I didn’t do any of the things on that video.

  My mouth is talking about the approximate cost of adding this and that to this potential house. But my mind is checking out, already out the office door.

  The meeting lasts two hours, but it’s as if I blinked and my mouth is saying goodbye and my hands are shaking theirs. I make it halfway back to my office before my stomach gives a twist and I throw myself into the bathroom and throw up into the first toilet.

  Violent shakes rip through my body as I cling to the toilet seat. I stare at the handle so I don’t see my sick floating in the toilet.

  My face.

  My mannerisms.

  Even my sense of style.

  I spit in the toilet one last time and flush it all down. I rinse my mouth out in the sink. Looking up at my reflection, I don’t look like the perfectly put together version of me from that video. My face is pale and there’s a sheen of sweat on my forehead and my chest.

  I rip four paper towels from the dispenser and wet them, trying to clear my skin and my mind. I throw them in the trash and yank the door open.

  “I’m not feeling very well,” I say without looking at Dina as I walk right past her desk. “I’m going home early.”

  I don’t wait to hear her response as I slip into my office and grab my things. I switch into my walking shoes, throwing the others into my bag with my drawings and notes I planned to work on tonight.

  Dina says something as I walk past her, but my mind is so far gone, I don’t even hear a word. I hardly process the elevator door sliding open or the five people already inside. I squint against the bright light as I get off at the ground floor. I don’t say goodbye to the security guard, Blake, which I always do.

  I step out into the bright sun of June in Bellevue, and hook left.

  It’s an eight-block walk back to my apartment, but in the right traffic, it takes me forty minutes to drive. It’s easier to walk, and with the uphill climb, it serves as a workout. And I can hit my favorite coffee shop on the way home.

  I step into line and pull out my phone.

  What do I do with this? Calling the police seems extreme when I don’t know anything. It could all be fake. Do I call a lawyer? A private investigator? What the hell are you supposed to do when someone walks around looking like you?

  I have to warn Ezra. I have to tell him that whoever he talked to, whenever that video was recorded, wasn’t me.

  Unless he’s trying to pull some sick prank on me and he was in on the whole thing.

  But that’ doesn’t sound like Ezra. And why now? After seven years without even seeing each other.

  I know that isn’t what this is.

  I pull up my contacts and scroll through them.

  It’s been so long since I had a reason to contact Ezra that I don’t have a number for him. We were practically kids when we broke up, he didn’t even have a cell phone back then.

  I give the barista my order, pay, and step off to the side to wait for it.

  No one has house phones anymore, and besides, I’d never be able to recall his parent’s number after thirteen years.

  I have no idea where Ezra is working these days.

  A light sparks in my brain and a quick web search shows me exactly what I need.

  Davis Knox, Snohomish. It immediately pulls up a website for Knox Properties, located in Snohomish.

  The barista calls my name and I grab it, taking a draw as I walk out of the shop and aim up the hill toward home.

  I click through the site, going to the About section. Sure enough, there’s a picture with his name.

  Davis is four years older than Ezra. I never knew him well, by the time Ezra and I were dating as seniors in high school, Davis had already been a realtor for three years and already owned three different commercial buildings around town. He was one of the most ambitious men I’d yet met as a seventeen year old.

  A phone number is plastered across every page of his website. I tap it, take a sip of my drink, and listen to it ring.

  “Knox properties, how can I direct your call?” a sweet sounding secretary answers.

  “Davis Knox, please,” I say.

  “One moment.”

  The phone rings twice.

  “This is Davis.”

  My stomach drops just a little and I stop on the sidewalk for a second.

  I hadn’t actually planned out what I was going to say.

  “Uh, hi, this is Sawyer James, from…home.” I cringe internally, squeezing my eyes closed hard.

  “Sawyer James…” his voice trails off, and I can hear him racking his brain, trying to connect the name.

  “I was Ezra’s girlfriend back in high school,” I say, barely resisting an eye roll as I keep walking down the sidewalk.

  My stomach gives another twist.

  Maybe drinking coffee just twenty minutes after throwing up was a bad idea.

  Still, I take another sip.

  “Saw…oh, wow, yeah, Sawyer James,” Davis says over the phone. “Pretty blonde, smiles a lot. Nice legs.”

  “Uh, excuse me?” I snap, my brows furrowing.

  “Yep, sassy attitude,” Davis says, and I swear I can hear him smile through the phone. “What can I do for you, Sawyer?”

  I make a scoffing sound, and my stomach actually does lurch, but I don’t think I’m offended enough to be physically sick. “Look, I’m calling you because I need to get ahold of Ezra, but I don’t have a number for him.”

  “I’m not giving you Ez’s number,” Davis says without a second of hesitation.

  “And why not?” I demand, my brows furrowing closer together.

  “Come on, Sawyer, don’t play dumb with me,” Davis says. “You know how you destroyed him when you left.”

  I wipe my forearm across my forehead, wiping sweat away. My eyelids actually flutter. I think I’m going to be sick again. Maybe after I take a nap.

  “Look, Davis,” I say, blinking five times in an attempt to wake myself up. “I know things went down a little rough, but it’s seriously important that I talk to Ezra.”

  “No,” he says again, almost sounding bored.

  “You realize I could just drive the hour it takes to get there and track him down myself, right?” I snap in annoyance.

  I stumble a step, spilling half my coffee. I swear, adjusting my bag over my shoulder, but it feels like it weighs a million pounds.

  I take another step forward, but the ground beneath my feet seems to be spinning.

  “I don’t think you will,” Davis taunts, still sounding bored.

  “Davis,” I hiss, but I blink rapidly, because I swear, it’s getting dark. “There’s something going on. I think there’s some woman that’s after Ezra.”

  “Seriously?” Davis scoffs. “You broke up with him like…thirteen years ago, and now you’re going to get jealous over another woman?”

  “It’s not like…” I stumble again, mentally cursing at myself. I’m sick. Like really sick. “It’s not like that, Davis. This woman, she looks like—”

  “Are you okay?” I hear Davis ask, but his voice sounds really far away.

  “She looks like…”

  But suddenly my knees bark in pain. I feel hot coffee running over the cement beneath me.

  The world goes dark and my ears won’t stop ringing.

  Chapter Three

  They say chivalry is dead, but plenty of men are still willing to help a pretty woman in distress. Feign embarrassm
ent, throw just the right pitch into your voice, and they’ll give you an obliging, flirtatious smile and do just about anything to help a woman they don’t know.

  All I had to do was drive up at the right moment, make a scene, and I had two fine gentlemen darting my way, ready to help me out.

  The entire thing was taken care of in less than two minutes. I offered them a flirtatious smile and a wink as my show of gratitude, and off I went.

  After everything I’ve been through in the last few years, I’m a perpetual planner. I’ve been organizing my schedule to a T, lining up surgeries and hair treatments, yoga classes, Botox injections, not to mention my own work schedule, because somehow I had to pay for everything.

  So my brain is still rolling through everything that has to line up in the next twenty-four hours.

  First, the drop off. That will be the hardest part, because on that end, I won’t have any help. Then, the camera pick up. Next, a morning visit to IMT Homes. The moving company is scheduled to show up at noon.

  I’ll be settled into my new apartment by dinner tomorrow night.

  I smile and turn on my blinker, merging into the traffic, aimed north.

  Chapter Four

  Sawyer

  There’s a knife in my brain.

  I’m sure of it as I reach a hand up to my head. I expect to find some kind of steel, a handle. I’m expecting blood running down my face, caked in my hair.

  But it’s just my head.

  My eyes flutter open, but my vision is blurry. I just make out a dark ceiling, and note that the air smells damp and old.

  With a groan, I push myself into a seated position. My head spins and I lean over to vomit, but I just dry heave.

  With a shallow breath and my stomach pulsing hard, still unsure if it’s going to evict its contents, I look up, forcing my eyes to focus.

  The space is small. Corrugated walls surround me, a dark green color. A single light bulb hangs from the ceiling. I’m lying on a cot with just one pillow and a worn-out comforter. There’s a long shelf with canned goods and bottled water on it. I see some kind of strange looking toilet at the far end, next to a door. There are two buckets of sawdust next to it.

  And at the far end, there’s a chair facing the wall, and on the wall, is a big-screen TV. A set of wires rises up the wall behind the TV and disappears into a small hole drilled in the ceiling of this metal box.

  “Hello?” I call out. But my words only echo back at me. My body shakes and pain stabs deeper into my brain as I stand. My hands go to my head and I stagger toward that door. “Hey! What’s going on?”

  My fingers wrap around the knob and I give a twist.

  I knew it would be locked before I tried.

  But I had to try.

  “Hello?” I scream, slapping my hands on the door. “Let me out!”

  I grab the handle again, twisting it as hard as I can, but my skin just screams out in pain.

  I back up a step and kick at the door as hard as I can.

  It only makes a loud sound and doesn’t even dent.

  “Help!” I scream. I kick once more at the door, which doesn’t do anything but send pain racing up my shin.

  I comb along the walls, looking for anything, any opening, any weakness. This looks like the inside of a shipping container. It’s roughly twenty feet long and eight or nine feet wide.

  It’s solid, save for four small holes where the wires rise up through them. I climb up on the chair and claw at the holes.

  I hiss in pain, pulling back my hand. I just sliced my fingertips open on the rough metal.

  I’m not clawing my way through those tiny holes.

  “Help!” I scream.

  My body has finally recognized the panic coursing through my blood. My heart is hammering in my chest. My hands are sweating. I would throw up if I stopped moving for a few seconds.

  My hands rise up and knot into my hair.

  The last thing I remember was talking to…Davis. Davis Knox, Ezra’s older brother.

  I pat my pockets. Desperately, I go back to the cot. I dig through the blanket, search under the pillow.

  My cell phone is nowhere to be found.

  My brain is throbbing in pain, but my mind is racing.

  I was talking to Davis. I remember feeling…weird. Dizzy. I kept tripping.

  I’d thrown up at the office.

  I was sick after watching that video of the imposter. But there’s no way I would have completely lost control of myself like that over it. I’d blacked out cold.

  “What the hell?” I hiss to myself, my hands going to my hair once more.

  Was I drugged? By who? For what reason?

  I scream when the TV at the end of the container flashes on. Slowly, I lower my hands as I turn and face it, as the picture comes into focus.

  I recognize my office. That’s my desk, my computer.

  I see hands reaching and taking stuff, putting it all in a box.

  It’s like the camera is attached to their chest.

  “This doesn’t make any sense, Sawyer.” I know that voice. When I see the khaki pants come into view, it confirms that it’s Jared, my boss. “After five years, after four promotions, you’re just walking out? With no notice? This…this doesn’t feel like you. Tell me what’s really wrong. Let me make it right.”

  “I told you, I just got a big opportunity to strike out on my own.” My blood goes cold, because I know that voice. It’s the woman from the video. It’s good, very similar to my own. “And if I wait at all, I’m going to miss it. I hate to do this to you, Jared. I know this is highly unprofessional, but I have to consider what’s best for my future.”

  “And you’re just going to hang Dina out to dry like this?” Jared demands.

  “She’s the best assistant there is,” the woman says. “I’ve already written her a recommendation letter and given her my apologies. She’ll find something even better.”

  My view shifts, like she’s stood up straight, and I see Jared. He looks livid. He looks confused.

  I shake my head.

  Don’t believe her, I think. I would never, ever walk out like this.

  “If you walk out like this, don’t expect to ever come back,” he says, and from his expression, I see that he means it.

  “I won’t,” the woman says. She grabs the box of her things and crosses to the door. “Thank you for all the opportunities you’ve given me. I wish IMT the best.”

  Jared just shakes his head in angry disgust. And I hope he knows that’s not me, because she just turns and walks out.

  I get a quick glimpse of Dina at her desk. She looks absolutely devastated.

  But the woman just keeps walking through the office. Past all those people I’ve worked with for the last five years. She presses the button for the elevator and the video goes black.

  Which means that I finally notice the red light at the top of the TV. I notice the shine of the small dot.

  “Oh, hell no, you don’t get to watch me,” I growl. I take the comforter off the bed and throw it over the TV.

  I pace the floor, my fingers once more tangled in my hair.

  What the hell, what the hell, what the hell, the words once more chant through my head.

  “Who are you?” I finally blurt, turning toward the TV. “Why…why are you doing this?”

  It was never really about you.

  I remember the subject line from that email.

  “Why me?” I ask, and my voice cracks with hoarseness.

  I’m a good person. No, I’m no saint, but I’m not a bad guy. I don’t make enemies. I’m not a bad neighbor. I leave good tips. I don’t even flip people off in traffic.

  “Why are you doing this to me?”

  Chapter Five

  The movers dropped off the last of the furniture and boxes an hour ago. Despite having lived in her last apartment for three years, Sawyer doesn’t have a lot of extra stuff. She’s clean and organized and tidy. They had everything boxed up and packed in the truck in a m
atter of two hours. It was an hour drive from Bellevue to Snohomish, and then it took them an hour to unload everything. We wrapped up a whole hour ahead of schedule.

  I’ve moved a few times over the years I’ve lived on my own. It’s always a stressful, horrible experience.

  But there’s something sweetly satisfying about this move. There’s something thrilling about unpacking these clothes. There’s something real about taking out these makeup bags, going through their contents, trying out a few shades I never could accurately guess.

  I take out the pictures from one box, grab a family portrait, and walk into the bathroom. I hold the picture up beside me and look at our reflections in the mirror.

  Well done, I think to myself.

  As the light outside begins to dim, I continue unpacking her things—my things, now. The dishes. The pots and pans. The throw blankets. I put the bedding back on the bed. Set the towels in the linen closet.

  Sawyer doesn’t keep extra stuff, but she does have one box of sentimentals. She has to be one of the only people left on this planet who still prints out pictures. She prints her own, I plugged in the photo printer in the spare bedroom.

  I pull off the lid, and start looking through the images.

  Sawyer is the perfect extrovert who isn’t overly loud or in your face. These are mostly pictures of her with friends. Out on trips, cabins at ski resorts or in Las Vegas, out on a boat. I recognize nearly all the faces.

  There are her parents, may they rest in peace. A sweet mother, a strong father.

  There are pictures of a few old boyfriends in here, though none of them have lasted very long. She looks happy enough in these pictures, but there’s always something missing in her eyes.

  And there, at the very bottom, is the oldest picture in this box.

  Sawyer is wearing a pale blue prom dress, her hair done up in an elegant up do. Ezra stands beside her, his arms wrapped around her tiny waist. His nose is touching her cheek and he’s grinning like he’s the happiest guy in the world.