“How long?” Con asked.
“Ten years, give or take,” Cabigail said with a sly smile. “If you grant me access to the rest of my work.”
“That’s what’s stored in my head.”
“Yes. Years of research and data. The research lab at Palingenesis possesses computational power to run modeling simulations that would take me a hundred years elsewhere. Unfortunately, there was no easy way to remove that data without raising alarms. Palingenesis is one of the most secure information facilities in the world. I should know. I designed it. A hermetically closed system with no connection to the outside world. Nothing goes in and nothing goes out. Let’s just say I needed to think creatively to claim my research without raising red flags.”
“The mass in my scan is literally killing me,” Con said.
“We are aware of that.”
“But you can fix it, can’t you?” Con said.
“Of course. At this point, Palingenesis is generations behind.”
“And let me guess, you’ll only fix what you broke if I give you what’s in my head. That’s the deal, isn’t it?”
“In part. I’m sorry we had to go to such lengths, but you understand now what is at stake.”
Con did and for perspective, rattled off those lengths to keep fresh in her mind the harm her aunts had inflicted to get what they wanted. Besides Brooke Fenton’s death, they had already confessed to killing Cynthia and Vernon Gaddis and the four men in the town house in Charlottesville. They had kidnapped Constance D’Arcy （Con wasn’t buying any of their with-her-consent bullshit）， stolen her body, and masqueraded as her for six months to frame Levi Greer for her murder. It was a grotesque violation. All so they could live forever. Con reckoned people had killed for less. She was sorely tempted to follow their bad example.
Instead, she tried her best to sum it all up. “So you built this place, made a clone of yourself, and convinced her to commit suicide so you could steal your own invention.”
“No, you misunderstand,” Abigail said.
Con looked at Abigail quizzically.
“I am the clone,” Abigail said.
“What?” Just when Con thought she was starting to see the big picture, she got thrown a curveball.
“It was the original Abigail Stickling who jumped off the roof of the Monroe Hotel. Abigail here is her clone,” Cabigail continued. “A necessary evil, but for the world to believe that Abigail Stickling was truly dead, the illusion had to be perfect. It was inevitable that the apparent suicide of the mother of human cloning would be greeted with extreme skepticism. Clones are not physically identical to their originals.”
“Besides,” Abigail said. “She and I both recognized that our consciousness would be better served in a newer body. Hers had fifty-plus years of wear and tear on it. There was never any question, really.”
“It had to be her body,” they said together.
“It was very hard,” Abigail said. “We had grown quite close. I miss her.”
“You miss yourself?” Con said.
“I suppose that does sound a bit narcissistic. Originally, I was only supposed to be a test of the equipment. But then we realized how much more could be accomplished if there were two of us. We worked together for several years until it was her time. What can I say? She was good company. It can get very lonely down here.”
Cabigail patted Abigail’s arm. Apart from the gun in her other hand, it seemed almost affectionate. A small reconciliation. Abigail smiled and squeezed her hand gratefully.
“Why did you wait so long?” Con asked. “Why the eighteen months?”
“Because your original fell in love,” Cabigail said.
“What a disaster,” Abigail agreed. “We meant to make contact with your original in January after New Year’s. Always such a grim month.”
Cabigail said, “We spent a year planning the suicide of a depressed young woman overwhelmed by personal tragedy. But then out of the blue, in swooped Levi Greer, and suddenly your original was in love and had moved to Richmond. We had to scrap everything and go back to the drawing board.”
“It took us eighteen months to lay a convincing groundwork for her murder,” Abigail said. “Levi Greer’s history with the farmhouse was just a lucky find. It all came together perfectly.”
Con recoiled at the callous pride in Abigail’s voice. As if her aunt had solved the Sunday crossword. She wanted to argue that Levi Greer wasn’t a loose end, that he was an innocent man and what they’d done was evil. But there was no point. The Abigails had spent the last seven years hatching their master plan. They weren’t about to be talked out of it now. They both had the eyes of converts. True believers. Her mother had those same eyes, although Con doubted that the Abigails would appreciate the comparison.