Page 101 of Lovely Darkness

“Yeah. I think so.”

“What were they doing? Fighting for control?”

“Maybe.”

“I wonder who won?”

“Carter, I think.”

“What makes you say that?”

“His accent. It’s American. Donovan kinda has a British accent. He grew up in the Caribbean.”

“Wait.” I chuckle at this. “They’re the same person, Sash. If one of them grew up in the Caribbean, they both grew up in the Caribbean.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“What do you mean? How does it work?”

“You’re the expert.”

“Not in this, I’m not. I’ve never dealt with a dual personality.”

“Well, you’ve seen movies, right? That superhero one, for instance.”

“Split?” I almost guffaw. “He was not a superhero. He was a supervillain. A crazy, psycho supervillain.”

“Here, there, whatever. You saw it. So you saw how he was. Each personality has its own characteristics. Donovan and Carter are the same way.”

“How do you know?”

She points at Donovan. “Duh.”

I let out a long breath and it turns into a laugh. “Sasha. Our lives, man. They’re crazy.”

“Tell me about it.” She walks over to the table where we were sitting and picks up her knocked-over chair, then takes a seat. “I’m so tired.”

“Go to bed. I can watch him. There’s no way in hell I’ll be able to sleep in this house after witnessing that.” I look down at Donovan and a chill runs up my spine.

“No. I won’t be able to sleep, either. Anyway, Indie and the others should be home soon.”

“Do you need to talk to Indie, or something?”

“No. But…” She hesitates.

“You want to talk to Nick, don’t you?”

She shrugs. “Maybe.”

“All right, then. We’ll keep watch together.” I walk back over to the table and take my seat as well. But I angle my chair so that Donovan Couture is dead center of my field of vision.

No way. No way I’m taking my eye off him again.

That whole scene creeped me out.

Sasha and I sit there for a little while, just staring at him in silence. But then she picks up a magazine in the center of the table and starts flipping through it. I grab a crossword book and start filling in squares with a purple felt-tip pen, feeling drowsy, but safe. Because Sasha’s here.

It’s nearly four AM when I jolt awake at the sound of tires crunching on the gravel driveway. Then headlights shine through the front breezeway windows. “You go,” I tell Sasha, my voice rough and grumbly from the sleep. “Have your chat. I’ll watch Donovan.”