The Day Before

by Liana Brooks

  She pulled the corn off the grill and took the food to the house. There were fresh peaches sitting by the apples. Delicious. Leaving the steak and corn in the oven on warm, she took the peaches outside to the grill. Brushed with a little butter, drizzled with a little honey and a pinch of cinnamon, there was dessert perfection in under five minutes. Black grill marks added visual contrast any professional chef would have been proud of. Sam smiled. The door swung open as she walked back to the house.

  “Feeling better?” Mac asked with a knowing smile.

  She glowered at him. “I don’t need an intervention.”

  He looked away rather than answering. “Are you going to share any of this with me?”

  She looked at her feast. There was more than enough for her, Mac, Hoss, and everyone else in the county. “I was planning on eating alone.”

  “All right.” He headed for the dishwasher, pulled out a bowl, and went straight to the cereal cupboard.

  Sam groaned. “Fine. I’ll share. Anything to save you from another bowl of chemicals.”

  “There are grains.”

  “Gen-­engineered rice as the fortieth ingredient does not count as a serving of grains.”

  He read the box with theatrical slowness. “It’s not the fortieth.”

  “I stand corrected,” she said dryly.

  “It’s thirty-­ninth.”

  Sam rolled her eyes. “Put it away, and I’ll share.”

  “Thank you.”

  She snarled at him, but he didn’t seem to mind. Loading her plate with steak, salad, corn, and peaches, she sat. Where to start? With the peaches, obviously. Hot, grilled peaches. She closed her eyes, savoring a bite. Juice dribbled down her chin, and she licked it away. “Perfect.”

  “Indeed.”

  She shot MacKenzie a sharp look, but he was cutting another bite of steak.

  “What marinade is this? I’ve never tasted it before.”

  Sam took a bite of steak before answering. “It’s blueberry teriyaki.”

  He paused midbite. “Blueberry?”

  “Is there a problem?” She raised an eyebrow, daring him to fight.

  He swallowed. “We might run out of steak. Can we talk now? I have news.”

  “I don’t care if you’re the new Pope. I’m eating dinner. Unless you need the ER right now, it can wait.”

  Mac shrugged. “Sure. It can wait.”

  The doorbell rang when she was finishing her second helping. Hoss went wild, jumping and barking like a fiend. “That’s probably Bri,” Mac said, wiping his mouth on his napkin. “I can take care of the dishes.”

  A healthy meal was enough to take the edge off her temper. Sam smiled. “Thank you.”

  Bri stood on the porch, supported by her husband, a short, plain man only made attractive by stunning aquamarine eyes.

  “You didn’t have to come,” Sam said by way of apology.

  “Nonsense.” Bri balanced a hand on Sam’s shoulder.

  “She needed to get out of the house,” Jake said. “The kids and the mess are driving her crazy. If you can keep her entertained for a ­couple of hours, I can get everything cleaned up, and maybe tomorrow she won’t threaten to bulldoze the house and build a new one.”

  “I think it’s a fabulous idea,” Bri grumbled. “Jake, baby, carry me over to the couch, would you?”

  Jake set Bri on the couch, with her leg set on the new coffee table. “When’d you get this?” Bri asked, running a hand along the couch. “It’s comfy.”

  “It’s Mac’s. One of the few things he managed to rescue from the flooding.”

  “And where is Mac?” Brileigh craned her neck, looking purposefully at the stairs.

  “In the kitchen. We just finished eating.”

  “Oh?” Bri patted the couch. “Come sit, Sammie.”

  “What time do you need your coach, pumpkin?” Jake asked.

  “Give me four hours,” Bri said, and she blew her husband a kiss. “Love you!”

  He winked and waved good-­bye. “Love you, too.” He blew Bri a kiss and left.

  “He’s sweet,” Sam said.

  “He’s amazing.” Bri smiled. “And you, I hear, are having a miserable week. Why did your roommate call me?”

  “Because he’s a meddlesome fool?”

  “Sammie,” she said reprovingly. “He seems sweet.” She craned her neck again, looking at the door this time. “Will I get to meet him?”

  “No. Bri, please, don’t. I should have called you back and told you to stay home. I’m not good company today.”

  “What happened?”

  “I called my mother.”

  Brileigh curled her lip in disgust. “Why? I only call my mother if someone dies, and even then, it has to be someone I like.”

  “It’s her birthday.”

  “That’s what e-­cards are for. Why waste phone time? Think of the poor starving birthday-­card artists who will go without pay this week because you didn’t buy your mother a card. What did she do, try to set you up with a new boyfriend?”

  “Some politician’s son in Madrid. She said she wants wedding invitations for her birthday. I should have stayed with Joseph.”

  The temperature in the room dropped twenty degrees. “Excuse me?”

  Sam pulled her knees up, curling into a ball at the end of the couch. “If we’d stayed together, we could have had a fall wedding.”

  “Not just no, sweetie, but never. Dumping him was a good thing, I promise. You can’t let your mother bully you like this. It’s your life, you don’t need to live it to please her.”

  Sam sniffed. Tears blurred the already-­dim room.

  “Listen,” Bri said, “you don’t really feel this way about Joseph. He was a cheating scumbag, someone you once called—­and I quote—­‘a tiny-­dicked douche bag’ that you hoped ‘caught syphilis from his own mother.’ Sound familiar?”

  Sam rubbed her hand over her eyes. “I never called him ‘tiny-­dicked.’ ”

  “I assumed.” Bri grinned. Sam couldn’t help it: she grinned back.

  “That’s settled, then. No more talk of weddings unless it’s about your having met a wealthy, handsome man who brought you to multiple orgasms and you’re flying off to Vegas tomorrow. No?” Sam shook her head, and secretly thanked Mac for calling her best friend over. Bri shifted and reached for the table. “Good. I brought some movies for you. How about we watch assassins, soul-­stealing fiends, and an epic battle in the maze of glass?”

  “The higher the body count, the better.” Sam sat up, wiping her face on her arm.

  Bri handed her the movie. “Here.” Sam put it in the player. “Is the TV new? I thought you didn’t have one.”

  “Mac bought it yesterday. His insurance money came in, or part of it, at least; I didn’t get all the details.”

  “And he put it out here?” Brileigh raised an eyebrow. She leaned forward. “You’re sharing electronics? Sam, what aren’t you telling me? Was I close about Vegas?” She smiled slyly. “The orgasms?”

  She studied the remote intently. “Mary have mercy, Bri, drop the roommate thing. Mac shares a kitchen with me, that’s it.” Sam wasn’t sure why she felt like she was blushing. Probably because I am.

  But now she wasn’t sure why she was.

  “You call him Mac.”

  “And I call you Bri, and myself Sam. I don’t like long names.” She sat back, arms crossed across her chest. They were not having this conversation. Ever.

  “Fine, forget him. But it’s only healthy, Sam. Find some guy you won’t mind spending an evening with, go to dinner, and have some wild sex. Or skip the dinner. Just get it out of your system,” Brileigh advised. Her eyes went wide. “That’s not why you have the roommate, is it? No, I’m sorry, I promised I wouldn’t ask. Wait, no I didn’t. So is it? You’re going to have an
office romance with him, aren’t you? Clandestine meetings in the break room maybe?”

  “No!” Sam pulled her knees closer. “I’m not dating Mac. We have nothing in common.”

  “Well, you work and—­apparently—­live together.” Bri raised an expressive eyebrow. “I think she doth protest too much.”

  “You’re wrong. There’s nothing there. No attraction. No interest. We tolerate each other; and then only when we have to. I’m not going to have anything with Mac except maybe a discussion on how to load the dishwasher correctly,” she said hotly.

  The kitchen door creaked shut, and Mac cleared his throat. “Um, sorry. I brought popcorn and walked in on the wrong part of the conversation.”

  “Mac!” Bri gushed. “I’d jump up and give you a hug, but I’m not jumping much at the moment. It’s so nice to meet you. Sam’s been telling me all about you.”

  “Really?” Mac sounded dubious. He approached the couch slowly, popcorn held between him and them like a shield.

  “Sorry,” Sam whispered, miserable.

  Mac gave her a lopsided grin. “You don’t need to apologize.”

  Bri smiled up at him. “You have gorgeous eyes. Sam, why didn’t you tell me he had nice eyes?”

  “Because you’re married.”

  “I could start a collection. MacKenzie, have you ever considered the benefits of living in a reverse harem?” Brileigh asked.

  Mac coughed. “Um, no. Thanks though. I’ll, uh, um.”

  “Mac isn’t interested,” Sam translated. “Not every breathing male on the planet falls flat on their face for you. Mac, how do you make this remote work? I want to watch the movie.”

  He reached down and hit three buttons. Light flared on the television.

  “Thank you.” Sam stared hard at the TV.

  “Anytime. I like to pretend I’m useful,” Mac whispered by her ear, and her cheeks grew hot.

  “You can cook,” Bri said cheerfully.

  “I can pour things in bowls.”

  “Sometimes that’s all that needs doing—­it’s never a bad thing for a guy to know where to put things.” Bri took a handful of popcorn and smiled; Mac blushed. Sam wondered if there was room to crawl under the couch. “You could have far creepier roommates, Sam,” Bri said. “I approve.”

  Mac laughed. “You didn’t tell her about the screaming.”

  Sam leaned her head back to look at him. Bri was right, he did have amazing eyes. She narrowed her gaze to a glare. “I’m still not talking to you, tattletale.” He blinked, looking a little hurt. “Besides, what you scream in bed when I’m in your room is none of Bri’s business.” She hit the PLAY button while Bri squeaked a wordless demand for information. Mac left laughing, and Sam remained stubbornly silent on the whole subject of nocturnal activities while they watched the movie.

  CHAPTER 21

  There is always a price for war. When the war is within our own being, the cost is either a loss of weakness, or a loss of strength.

  ~ Excerpt from The Oneness of Being by Oaza Moun Il–2070

  Saturday June 22, 2069

  Alabama District 3

  Commonwealth of North America

  Wiping sweat off his face, Mac put the lawn mower away. He was secretly hoping the drought would last all summer and kill the grass. So far, the weather was against his master plan. It was helping the nightmares though. He worked himself to physical exhaustion every day, and the dreams seemed to stay away. And there was an added benefit to trading pills for exercise: he was in better shape than he had been in five years.

  A dark blue Jabon Savanna sparkled in the sunlight as it pulled up to the house. Mac smiled. “Good morning, Miss Azalea. Sam’s still sleeping, but the rent checks are in the kitchen.”

  “I was just heading to town.” The old woman toddled over to him. “And how is my favorite boy?”

  He blushed. “Don’t say that too loud—­Mr. Cummins will get mad at me.”

  “Pff! The old man’s been dead twelve years now.”

  Mac held the door as they walked inside. “Here’s the rent. I mowed the lawn again, but I haven’t put the weed killer down yet.”

  “That needs to be done. We wait too much longer, and you going to be mowing weeds. They grow faster than grass. You be mowing twice a week if the weeds win.”

  “I’ll take care of it tomorrow,” he promised.

  “That’s my good boy.” Hoss walked in, and Miss Azalea let out a delighted squeal. “There’s my handsome man! There’s my beautiful one. Are they feedin’ you right? Are they feedin’ my babykins?” She wiggled the dog’s jowls. “Sweet thing. Let me check my purse. Do I have a treat for you? Do I have a treat for ma puppykins? Yes I do! Right here! Who’s a good boy? Sit!”

  Hoss’s rump hit the ground like a bowling ball.

  “Good boy! Isn’t he adorable?”

  “A charming, slobbery mutt,” Mac agreed.

  “And a purebred mutt at that. Well.” She sighed and shook her head at Hoss. “Slobbery is right. I need to wash my hands if you don’ mind.”

  “It’s your sink,” Mac said, stepping out of the way. “I just rent it.”

  She washed her hands and turned back. Hoss lay down, then rolled over, trying to earn another treat. Miss Azalea reached for her purse, and Hoss jumped up hopefully. “Nothing more for you, ungrateful greedy gut.” She looked at Mac. “I got something for you and Miss Rose, a little card. I wanted to thank you for cleaning my car after you borrowed it. And, here”—­she pulled some coins from her purse—­“these were in the car. You must have dropped ’em. I couldn’t keep them, it would be stealin’.”

  Mac took the pennies in stunned silence. “Miss Azalea? Did you say we borrowed your car?”

  “Yes, dear. Just the other day. And returned all nice and clean and shiny. I thought it was sweet of you. I never wax my car when I wash it, but it does shine now, doesn’t it.” She smiled fondly out at her Jabon Savanna.

  He nodded. “Beautiful.” With a few more words for Hoss, Miss Azalea left. Mac dropped the pennies in his pocket, frowning. It was disturbing to have that much of his life missing—­and he thought he was doing so well off the pills. He couldn’t remember borrowing a car at all.

  The sound of stairs creaking made him turn to the living room with a half smile. Sam was up. Hoss bounded forward, all four feet leaving the ground at once. Mac followed after, opening the door so the mutt could enthusiastically greet his favorite human.

  Sam pushed the dog away and yawned. Sleep bedraggled, she was still beautiful.

  “Miss Azalea brought you your change.”

  She tilted her head to one side. Sam looked blankly at the pennies. “My change from what?”

  “You left it in Miss Azalea’s car when you borrowed it.”

  Sam frowned at him. “When did I borrow her car?”

  “I don’t know, but she dropped by to pick up the rent and say thank you for washing the car.”

  “She said I took the car?” Sam looked at him with worry written on her face.

  “She said we did.” Mac looked at her pleadingly. “I don’t remember going anywhere with you.”

  “We didn’t go anywhere.”

  “That makes me feel better.”

  “It makes me feel worse. Who would Miss Azalea think was us?”

  “I don’t know, but they washed her car and left her three cents in change.”

  Sam’s hands clenched. “Remind me to talk to her on Sunday. I can give one of her daughters a call, too. They can take her to the doctor.” She glanced at the pennies in his hand. “Keep the change.”

  He followed her into the kitchen. “I wanted to tell you last night, but . . .”

  “What?”

  “Birmingham called.”

  Her knuckles went white as she opened the fridge. “And?”


  “No clone markers. For any of the samples.”

  “Accuracy?” her voice was shaky.

  “As close to one hundred percent as possible.”

  Tears swam in her eyes, and Mac wished he could take the pain away. “That makes no sense.”

  “Both of the matches we sent in for Melody Chimes came back confirmed.”

  “But one is Melody Doe?”

  “Right. Melody Doe is the most recent sample. A statistically perfect match for our missing security guard.”

  “Who is in Paris.”

  “According to Agent Marrins . . .” He let that thought dangle.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying I’d really like a DNA sample from the Melody Chimes in Paris. It’s a niggling thought I had last night. Probably nothing, but it gets better.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Jane’s DNA is a match for you, but the mutations match an advanced age of five years, which fits the age range of the body.”

  “We already knew that. Physically, Jane is older than I am.”

  “With more breaks, too.” He nodded. “I had them run your DNA against archived data. You are Samantha Lynn Rose. Jane is you . . . in five years.”

  She frowned. “How do you explain that?”

  “Illegal cloning, maybe. Someone here is running a lab, probably not far from the field where we found both bodies. They’re making clones without markers.”

  “But why me? And which one do you think I am?” She sat at the table. “I’m confused. How can anyone make clones without markers?”

  “At a guess, you’re Samantha Rose. Jane was an overmatured clone. If you pull the clone out of the vat early, the clone marker won’t show up, but you can’t control the rate of growth, either. As to why: ease of DNA access. Do you ever go out to clubs, bars, anything like that?”

  Her lips twisted in a frown. “Regularly enough. Bri and I usually hit the clubs on Wednesday. Fewer crowds, and it’s nice to know you can have a minivacation midweek.”

  “Melody Chimes had pictures of her out with groups of friends at clubs. Getting a DNA sample wouldn’t be hard. Depending on the tech, it could be something as simple as grabbing a strand of hair.”