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Chapter Thirty-one

Lake

Baxter opened his eyes when I brought the car to a stop, staring blankly out of the windscreen as if he didn’t recognize his surroundings.

“Hampstead Heath,” I announced. “I thought we could go for a walk and get some fresh air. Talk about stuff… maybe.”

Baxter was already halfway out of the car. I understood why when he staggered over to a bush and threw up. I took my time locking the car, giving him a moment to compose himself before I followed and offered him a tissue. He took it and wiped his mouth. “The coffee,” he said.

“Yeah,” I agreed. We both knew it wasn’t the coffee, but if that’s how he wanted to play it, I was happy to go along with it. People coped with shock in different ways.

Once Baxter had recovered enough, we took the path toward Kenwood House. I doubted either of us was up for a visit, but it was as good a direction as any to take. At least the path was open enough that no one could follow without us being aware of it. There was currently one gray-haired old man walking a black Labrador. I treated the man to a hard stare before concluding he really was on the wrong side of seventy rather than in disguise.

“So,” Baxter eventually said. “I have an evil twin.” He might have tried for humor, but his tone fell short.

It was hard to know what to say in response. Everything that came to mind either sounded trite or overly optimistic with no grounds to be so.

“You don’t need to say anything,” Baxter said. “You being here is enough.”

It was amazing how often I forgot he could read my mind. “I should have been better at your parents’ house. Asked more questions. Been more supportive.”

“You were perfect.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Perfect, hey?”

“Perfect,” Baxter repeated. “You didn’t get in the way, you didn’t rile them up, you didn’t harangue them about the coffee when I asked you not to, and you reined me in when I got close to going off the deep end. Perfect.”

The walk only lasted half an hour before we returned to the car, but it had put some color back into Baxter’s cheeks. I took the driver’s seat again, Baxter not objecting. And then we just sat there.

The harsh peal of Baxter’s ringtone made us both jump. “Calisto?” I asked hopefully. He shook his head, angling his phone so I could see the unknown number on the screen.

A tightness crept into my chest as his jaw set, his thumb hovering over the screen as if he were bracing for impact. “You shouldn’t answer it,” I said. “Or maybe you should. I don’t know. What did Ben say about the calls? Shouldn’t they be tracing them or something?”

Baxter was already answering. He put it on speaker and we both went still. Nothing but breathing. Just as Baxter had described before. Not rapid. Not ragged. Steady. Metronomic. Utterly calm, which somehow made it worse.

“I know who you are,” Baxter said eventually. “You’re my—” He swallowed, the word sticking in his throat. “You’re my twin brother. I didn’t know about you. I want to make that clear. They never told me. If they had, I would have looked for you. So why don’t we talk, Owen? You want my attention, you’ve got it.”

He waited.

Five seconds stretched to thirty, then to a minute.

The breathing never changed. Baxter using his name drew no response. Baxter’s fingers tightened around the phone as he brought it closer to his mouth. “What do you want from me? You wanted me dead. I get that. The knife in the back was a fairly big clue. And I understand you must be furious that after nineteen years I’m back.” His voice hardened. “But what do you want now? You must want something more than me being dead again. If that was the goal, you could’ve done it before I even knew you existed.”

He took a breath. “But you really messed up with Jamie. He’s told the police everything. They’re looking for you, and it’s only a matter of time before they find you.”

Still nothing.

“Hang up,” I mouthed. “He’s not going to talk.”

Baxter ended the call. He slumped back against the seat, his face deathly pale once more. “Why won’t he talk to me?”

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “You’re approaching this rationally. People who’ve done what he’s done are usually a long way from that.”

“What do you think happened to him?” Baxter asked. “To make him like that?” He sat up straighter, a new thought clearly taking hold. “We have the same genetics. What if I’m capable of monstrous things too?”

“How many people have you wanted to kill?”

“None. Not seriously, anyway.”