“It’s easier to frame someone from the inside,” Cabigail said as if it were the most natural decision in the world.
“No, I mean, why frame him?”
“There couldn’t be any loose ends,” Abigail said simply. “Con D’Arcy couldn’t simply disappear. There had to be someone to blame.”
“You’re monsters, both of you,” Con said. “And where was the real Con all this time?”
“Right here. She stayed here with me,” Abigail said as though Con’s original had driven up here for a nice, cozy visit. Niece and aunt catching up after some years, sitting on the cottage porch trading stories. But all Con could see was her original’s mutilated body in that moldering farmhouse. Stepping in close, she put her forehead to Cabigail’s, trying to drive her back like a crooked nail.
“Did you kill her?”
“Yes,” Abigail said. “We did. But with her consent.”
Con’s head jerked toward Abigail. “You lie.”
“It’s true,” Cabigail said.
“Why don’t we go inside?” Abigail said, opening the door and smiling hospitably. “Let us explain.”
Con looked from one woman to the other. “What’s the point? I’m never going to give you what’s in my head. Not ever.”
“You will,” Cabigail said.
“After we explain,” Abigail finished.
“Never going to happen,” Con spat.
“Your original said something similar,” Abigail said.
“Please. Let us explain,” Cabigail said.
Con let go of Cabigail. “Yeah, okay. This I have to hear.”
The three women went into the cottage and closed the door on the outside world. This was why she was here, wasn’t it? To hear the end of the story, even if it wasn’t the story she wished she’d lived.
The door led into a dark, cluttered living room with ceilings low enough that even Con could almost touch them. Bookcases overflowed with old paperback mysteries, games, and about a hundred jigsaw puzzles. A stone fireplace that looked as if it had been carved out of the side of the mountain dominated the back wall. Its mantel was covered in knickknacks and what, to the naked eye, looked like junk. An ancient plasma television older than Con was mounted on one wall opposite a threadbare couch covered with a patchwork quilt. Off to the left was a narrow galley kitchen, and through the only other door, Con saw a cramped bedroom.
It reminded her of one of those rustic cabin getaways that city people rented to escape the bustle for a long weekend. Hard to imagine anyone living here year-round, much less one of the most brilliant minds of the twenty-first century. Abigail—the one who actually looked like Abigail Stickling—had said she’d been here for years. Con looked around the cottage. If there were two Abigails, then her aunt had made a clone. Where, though? Because it hadn’t been in that kitchen.
“No one actually lives here, do they?” Con said. “This is all just set dressing.”
“Very good.” Abigail nodded approvingly. “We call this the show home.”
“Camouflage in the event anyone got curious enough to take a serious look at the property. All they’d find is this old eyesore,” said Cabigail.
“So, where’s the real deal?” Con asked.
In answer, Cabigail placed her palm on one of the stones in the mantel of the fireplace. It slid back to reveal a state-of-the-art security station and a shallow rectangular indentation that seemed to serve no purpose. Cabigail entered her biometrics. After a moment, Con felt a low rumble beneath her feet. Behind them, the front door locked of its own accord, and then the fireplace retracted smoothly back into the wall. Lights ticked on, revealing a wide passageway that sloped down into the mountain.
“Hey, a secret lair,” Con said. “Very on brand, you guys.”
“I’ve missed her sense of humor,” Abigail said.
“Best not to talk about that,” Cabigail suggested.
“You’re right. You’re right,” Abigail agreed. Now that things seemed settled between them, the two Abigails had turned oddly civil.
“Come along,” Cabigail said. “Let us give you the nickel tour.”
The passageway was longer than Con expected, at least one hundred feet long, down into the heart of the mountain. Abigail explained that it was built in a natural cave system that had been enlarged as necessary. They came to a second security door, which required yet more biometrics. It let them into a bright, spacious, and determinedly spartan living space and kitchen—the antithesis of the cottage above. False windows were set into the walls, which Abigail explained simulated both the time of day and the current weather outside. The illusion was immersive. If Con didn’t know better, she’d have had no way to tell she was underground.