Page 120 of Pretty Nightmare

He’s using me.

I’ve known this since the day he faked our deaths and slipped us out of McKay’s pocket and into his.

I don’t know the full story of Nick and Wendy. She never mentioned his name at all when we were kids. And she won’t talk about him now. But whatever it is, it’s strong.

And he won’t let her go.

Not without a fight.

The address Nick gave me reveals a rustic—but modern—farmhouse with forest-green wood siding and a long, pitched, tin roof that hangs over an open porch held up with thick, raw-wood beams. There is a main section and two small wings off to the side that curve forward slightly, giving the overall impression of a semi-circle.

There are lights on inside. And when I sneak around the perimeter, peering into windows, I see one of the girls Nick was referring to and have to swallow down the bile that threatens to come up.

She is Indie.

She is the spitting fucking image. And if I didn’t know better, I’d call her name. I’d go inside. I’d tell her all my plans and make all my apologies.

But I do know better.

They make doubles. Triples. Hell, who knows how many they make these days. It used to be you had to propagate the Company by natural means. But now? Now they just inseminate a teenager and have her pop out twins. Triplets. Whatever they need. Whole litters of Company girls are made these days.

I’ve seen it so many times over the past four years. In so many parts of the world. And a lot of them did look like Indie. But they have a template for them, don’t they? They all kinda look alike. The Wendys of the world aren’t much different than the Indies, or the Angelicas, or the Harpers.

She’s the same age as Indie too. Or close enough. Not a teenager. Twenties, at least.

This gives me pause.

I can take one Indie. If I’m prepared. But three of them? Nick said triplets. Three girls like Indie against me?

Nope.

I’m not gonna do it. Fuck that shit. I didn’t make it this far, come this close to walking away still alive, just to let one of these freak copies kill me now.

And it’s getting late. I need to get to Old Home. That’s where the real job is.

I’m just about to walk away, Nick be damned, when a scream echoes inside the house. A bloodcurdling scream that stops me in my tracks. And when I peer back through the window, I catch the tail end of Indie-twin running towards the east side of the house.

I run around, peeking into windows, trying to see where she’s going. But it’s not until I get all the way to the far side of the east wing that I find all the commotion.

She’s sitting on the edge of a bunk built into the side of a wood-paneled wall. It’s a large room with two overstuffed couches and two matching chairs arranged into a seating area in the center. There are four bunks built into the wall, two on each side of a set of built-in wooden stairs that gives access to the top bunks.

It’s a beautiful room. A beautiful house, from what I can see by peeking in the windows. Very rustic. Fitting for the area, which is a thick, hardwood forest nestled up against the Big Black River.

Everything about this place is custom. Including the three children Indie-twin is comforting.

Three little girls. Triplets. Long blonde hair. Frightened blue eyes.

They are crowded into Indie-twin’s lap. And she pets their hair and kisses their heads, comforting them.

Nightmares. We all have them.

But there’s something different about these little girls. Something just a little bit… off.

They aren’t Indie. They are only about four. So I don’t know. Maybe that’s what Indie looked like when she was four.

Nick lied.

The woman might be Indie. Probably is.