Con thought back. It felt like a lifetime ago now. “A cop took pity on me. He let me through the turnstile.”
“Unbelievable,” Cabigail said with a sardonic laugh. “My entire career is predicated on the belief that I could account for all the variables. That all it took was planning and intellect, and there was nothing that couldn’t be anticipated and controlled. And I failed to account for the possibility that you might charm a police officer into doing you a favor. And because of my well-documented arrogance, Vernon met you. And now his head is filled with all sorts of suspicions and theories. The one thing I most wanted to avoid.”
“And here we are,” Con said.
“Here we are,” Cabigail replied, seeming to make up her mind about something. “Come along. There’s something I want to show you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“Show me what?” Con asked, trailing warily after Cabigail.
They came to a locked door, which accepted Cabigail’s credentials. The locks disengaged audibly, but Cabigail hesitated before opening the door. “A few ground rules before you go inside.”
“Aren’t you coming with me?” Con said.
“Better if he only sees one Con D’Arcy at a time.”
“Who?” Con asked, suddenly very aware of the beating of her heart and the chill running the length of her spine.
“Keep in mind that he is very sensitive to external stimuli, so no loud noises or sudden movements. Do your best to remain calm. He doesn’t do well with emotional peaks. Try to speak slowly and clearly.” Cabigail held the door open, and Con peered into a simple antechamber. At the far end was a plain wooden door that looked conspicuously out of place in her aunt’s hypermodern underground complex. “Also, no mention of the date or how much time has passed. As far as he is concerned, it is still 2037. It will upset him if you challenge that belief.”
“What have you done?” Con said but took a halting step into the antechamber. Once, in high school, a girl had crept up behind her in the hallway and coldcocked her in the ear. Con hadn’t lost consciousness, but for the next day, she’d felt underwater, as if two strong hands were holding her head just below the surface. That was how she felt now. Cabigail was still talking, but it sounded muffled and far away, drowned out by the words that played over and over in a perverse M?bius strip.
Better if he only sees one Con D’Arcy at a time.
Better if he only sees one Con D’Arcy at a time.
Better if he only sees one Con D’Arcy at a time.
Con had been adamant that her original would never agree to any of this. There was nothing that could persuade her. But now, she wondered. Had her aunt offered the one thing that Con would willingly die for? She reached the wooden door and looked back at Cabigail, who smiled reassuringly and waved her on.
“You’ll do fine. I’ll be in my office when you’re finished. We’ll talk then.”
Con turned the doorknob and opened the last door.
Inside was a small, dimly lit room—twin bed, dresser, two chairs. A rudimentary table sat beneath a window that, even though they were deep underground, had a panoramic view of the mountains. On the table was a half-finished jigsaw puzzle of Jimi Hendrix kneeling before his burning guitar.
On the bed, a man lay on his side with his back to her. Con covered her mouth with her hand in a timeless gesture of dread.
“What have you done?” she whispered through her fingers as the man rolled over and sat up on the edge of the bed. A choked moan escaped her, and then tears came like the sudden Texas storms that would roar out of the desert, sending families scrambling for high ground.
It was Zhi. Even though he had died more than a year ago, it was her Zhi.
He scratched his shaved head sleepily. His feet were bare. A loose white T-shirt couldn’t hide how thin he was. Hospital scrubs with an elastic waist hung low on his hips. He didn’t look surprised to see her, but when he smiled, it was only with half his face. The other side sagged like a sail that had lost the wind, the way her uncle Frank’s face had after his stroke.
“I was starting to worry that you weren’t coming back,” Zhi said, his voice strangely childlike.
“Of course I was,” she said. Zhi thought she was the original Con D’Arcy, and she played along, remembering what her aunt had said about not challenging his beliefs.
“Why are you crying?” he asked. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, nothing. I’m just happy to see you,” she said, stifling her tears and forcing a smile. The truth, of course, was infinitely more complex. This was all she had dreamed about for more than three years. So why did she feel so divided now?