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Chapter Thirty-seven
Baxter
“When did you discover my existence?”
Owen frowned. “Something of a provincial start, but okay. I guess I can’t dictate what you ask. I found out a few months before our first… meeting.”
“How?”
He started a slow pace back and forth, apparently preferring it to staying still. “That’s question number two. My turn.” He made quite a show of pondering his question, completing six more circuits of his imaginary track before he spoke. “How did you come back from the dead?”
If he was going to play hardball with questions, then I would too. “Courtesy of a necromancer with special skills.”
“Huh!” It obviously hadn’t been the answer he expected. “How does that work? I thought necromancers could only bring someone back for a short time.”
“You used up your question,” I pointed out. A flash of something that looked like anger crossed his face before he turned his head away. When I saw his face again, it was gone. It reminded me that I didn’t know how volatile he was and that I should watch my step. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” I conceded to keep things relatively friendly, if you could ever class conversing with your murderer as friendly. “The necromancer and I”―I wouldn’t use Calisto’s name―”we had a link. One that gave me a foot in both worlds. He did something to bring me back, but even he wouldn’t be able to tell you what it was.”
Owen threw me a malevolent look. “I should have words with this necromancer.”
“Words about what?” My gaze kept straying back to the knife, checking that it was still there.
“About him undoing my good work. Rather rude of him, don’t you think?”
“The ’good work’ being you killing me?”
“You took a long time to die.” The words were chilling in their simplicity. I dug my fingers into my thigh, the slight bite of pain helping keep my expression neutral. “I thought I was going to have to visit the hospital to finish the job.”
“Would you have done that?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation. Owen hadn’t even needed to think about it. “Why?” I said. “Why did you want me dead so badly?”
“I didn’t know I did,” he said. “I followed you that day. Did you know that?”
I shook my head.
“I lived your life with you. Sure, I had a knife. But I hadn’t decided if I was going to use it. I wanted to see you. I wanted to understand what you were about, this twin who wore my face but who differed from me in almost every way.”
“Did I?”
Something dark passed across his face. “Like chalk and cheese, and I’m not just talking about who you choose to fuck. You were popular. You were always smiling. Always on the phone. Always talking to someone.” Each thing he added came out with more bitterness. “You had parents. A boyfriend. Friends. Everything I didn’t have.”
“You resented me.”
He swung around, eyes glittering. “You were a reminder of what my life could have been.”
“So you followed me here.” I swallowed my nausea.
Owen smiled. “It was so easy. It should have been harder, right? You should have heard me coming. You should have swung around and seen my face. I would have liked to have seen the look of shock if you had.” He laughed. “Imagine being confronted by the identical twin you didn’t know you had. If I could go back and do it again, I’d call your name first and let you turn around. Stick the knife in your gut rather than in your back. But hey, we all make mistakes.”
The nausea became a pressing need. He wasn’t sorry he’d killed me. His only regret was that he hadn’t taken more time over it. I didn’t know what I’d expected to get from this conversation, but it wasn’t that. My gaze strayed to the knife again. Having it in my sights should have made it easy to get to first, but Owen scooped it off the concrete and into his hand before I registered him even moving.
He stood less than a meter away, knife raised, breathing hard. I wanted to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Coming here alone with him had been a mistake.
One that would likely result in my death.
Again.
