The Stolen Twin

by Michele PW (Pariza Wacek)

  I stared at her, that sense of “wrongness” I felt in the kitchen that morning rushing through me again. “But, I mean, I saw you …” my voice trailed off as images flashed through my mind.

  The white nightgown disappearing into Chrissy’s room.

  Chrissy standing in the kitchen wearing her red and blue sleep outfit.

  I rubbed my temples, the coffee turning into a sick, greasy lump in my stomach. Oh God, I hoped I wasn’t going to throw up.

  Chrissy was looking at me with something that resembled concern. Or maybe it was alarm. After all, I was the only adult she knew within 1,000 miles. “Are you okay,

  Rebecca?”

  I reached for my water glass. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s an old house. Old houses make all sorts of noises. I’m sure that’s what kept me awake.”

  Chrissy didn’t look terribly convinced, but she went back to her iPhone. She was probably texting her friends about how I was losing it. Or worse … texting her father.

  I drank some water to try and settle my stomach. I was being ridiculous. Old houses make all sorts of creaks and groans and can sound exactly like footsteps, which is what kept waking me up last night. And as for what I saw … well, clearly, I hadn’t seen anything. Just a trick of the light, or the moon, or something. And with the pounding of my head, I really wasn’t paying that close attention. I just needed to get some food in my stomach. And hopefully, some decent sleep that night. Then I could forget about all the house nonsense. Stefan and I could laugh about it … assuming he finally got around to calling me back, that is.

  Okay, I so didn’t want to go down that road. Instead, I sat back in my seat, sipped my coffee, and watched Mia top off the cup of a cute guy who looked like a contractor, laughing at something he said. I still had trouble believing Mia was waiting tables at the diner. Of all of us, she was bound and determined to get out and never come back. I remembered how driven, how passionate she had been about all the injustices in the world, and how determined she had been to right them. She was going to be a lawyer and fight for everyone who couldn’t help themselves. What had happened?

  A couple of older, neatly-dressed women sitting at a table next to us were staring at me.

  They wore nearly identical pantsuits, except one was baby blue and the other canary yellow. Their half-eaten food sat in front of them. Taken aback at the open aggression in their eyes, I looked back at them, wondering if I should know them.

  Were their stares really directed at me? Did I do something in my youth my traitorous memory had yet to reveal? Maybe they were actually looking at someone sitting behind me. I turned around to look, but no one was there. When I swiveled back, their identical gaze looked even more antagonistic.

  I dropped my eyes, only half-seeing the paper placemat covered with local advertising, feeling a growing sense of unease in my belly. They didn’t look familiar at all. Who were they? And why me?

  “Why did the waitress call you Becca?” Chrissy asked, startling me. For once, I was glad she was there to distract me, even though part of me instantly wanted to scream at her to stop calling me that.

  “It was my nickname,” I said, willing those older women to get up and leave. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw them lean toward each other, whispering, hostile eyes still watching me. I adjusted my head until I couldn’t see them anymore.

  Chrissy went back to her iPhone “It’s cute. Better than Rebecca.”

  I ignored the twist of pain inside me and put my hand on my heart. “Wait. Did I just hear an almost compliment there?”

  Chrissy rolled her eyes. “I’m just saying. I think I’ll call you Becca.” “Don’t,” I said, before I could stop myself.

  Chrissy looked surprised. And, if I didn’t know her any better, a little hurt. “What, only people you like can call you Becca?”

  Cripes. I could have smacked myself. Why on earth wasn’t there a manual out there on how to be a stepmom to a daughter who is only fifteen years younger than you?

  “That’s not it,” I said, stalling for time as I tried to put the feelings that had swamped over me into words. “It just … it just triggers bad memories. That’s all.” I cringed—I sounded so lame, even to myself.

  Chrissy gave me a withering look as she furiously pounded on her iPhone. I opened my mouth to say something—I had no idea what … something to bridge the gap that yawned between us—but Mia’s voice interrupted me. “Daniel! Look who’s here! It’s Becca!”

  I closed my mouth and turned to look. A police officer was standing at the counter watching Mia fill up a to-go container with coffee. Could that be Daniel? I searched the room, but only saw only a handful of people finishing up their breakfast. It had to be him.

  I looked back at the cop. Broad shoulders and dark blonde hair—Daniel. Mia glanced at me and winked. I made a face back at her.

  He turned. He was older of course, but yes, it was most definitely Daniel. He wouldn’t be considered traditionally handsome—not like Stefan with his almost pretty-boy looks.

  Daniel’s face was too rugged, with sharp cheekbones and a crooked nose. But his lips were still full and soft, and his eyes were still the same dark blue. I found myself suddenly conscious of my appearance. I hadn’t taken a shower in two days, and I was wearing an old, faded New York Giants tee shirt. I had scraped my unruly mass of reddish, blondish, brownish hair back into a messy ponytail in preparation for a full day of cleaning and organizing. But I quickly reminded myself that I was being silly. I was a married woman, sitting with my stepdaughter, and he was engaged.

  Besides, he had made it more than clear years ago he wasn’t the slightest bit interested in me.

  “Becca,” he said coming over, his face friendly, but not exactly smiling. “Welcome back to Redemption.” It didn’t sound much like a welcome.

  “Thanks,” I said, mostly because I couldn’t think of anything better to say. Instinctively, I reached up to smooth out my hair, since as usual, a few curly tendrils had escaped and hung in my face. “Not much has changed.”

  He studied me, making me really wish I had taken an extra five minutes to jump in the shower and dig out a clean shirt. “Oh, plenty has changed.”

  “Like you being a cop?”

  He shrugged slightly. “Pays the bills.”

  I half-smiled. “There’s lots of ways to pay the bills. If I remember right, you always seemed more interested in breaking the law than upholding it.”

  “Like I said, things change.” He lifted his to-go coffee cup and took a swallow, dark blue eyes never leaving mine. “I take it you’re still painting then.”

  I dropped my gaze to his chest, feeling a dull ache overwhelm me—the same pain I felt when I heard the name Becca. “As you said, things change.”

  “Ah.” I waited for him to ask more questions, but instead, he changed the subject. “So, how long are you staying?”

  I shrugged. “Not sure. We’ve actually moved here.”

  His eyebrows raised slightly. “To Charlie’s house? You aren’t selling it?”

  “Well, yes. Eventually. That’s the plan. But, at least for the foreseeable future, we’ll be living in it.” I sounded like an idiot. With some effort, I forced myself to stop talking. Why on earth did I share so much detail? How was this any of his business?

  He looked like he was going to say something more but was interrupted by a loud snort.

  The two pant-suited women both scraped their chairs back as they stood up, glaring disgustedly at all of us before heading to the cash register.

  “What’s with them?” Chrissy asked. I had forgotten she was there.

  I shrugged, before remembering my manners and introducing Chrissy to Daniel. I made a point of gesturing with my left hand to flash my wedding ring.

  His head tipped in a slight nod before looking back at me. “Will you be around later today? I’d like to stop by a
nd talk to you.”

  There was something in his expression that made me uneasy, but I purposefully kept my voice light. “What on earth for? I haven’t even unpacked yet. Am I already in trouble?”

  The ends of his lips turned up in a slight smile, but no hint of warmth touched the intense look in his eyes. “Should you be in trouble?”

  I let out a loud, exaggerated sigh. “Why do cops always answer a question with a question?”

  “Occupational hazard. I’ll see you later.” He dipped his chin in a slight nod before walking away. I noticed he didn’t give me the slightest hint as to what he wanted to talk to me about. That sense of unease started to grow into a sense of foreboding.

  “Well, for an old friend, he wasn’t very friendly,” Chrissy said. I sipped my coffee. “That’s for sure.”

  She smirked. “He was pretty cute, though. For an old guy, I mean.”

  Man, she did have a knack for making me feel ancient. But, unfortunately, even that didn’t distract my mind from scrambling around like a rat in a cage, worrying about what he wanted to talk to me about.

  .

  Michele Pariza Wacek (also known as Michele PW) taught herself to read at three years old because she so badly wanted to write fiction. As an adult, she became a professional copywriter (copywriters write promotional materials for businesses, nothing to do with protecting intellectual property or putting a copyright on something) and eventually founded a copywriting and marketing company.

  She grew up in Madison, Wisconsin and currently lives with her husband and dogs in the mountains of Arizona. You can reach her at MicheleParizaWacek.com. The Stolen Twin is her first published novel.