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She staggers back and I stare at her.
I don’t know what I expected, but it isn’t this… somehow anticlimactic moment. What I need is my phone, the cops. I need to talk to Travis. Not saying things have miraculously sorted, but I think… I think we should talk and—
“Why are you laughing?” I snap.
Because she is. Maniacally, raucously, like she can’t stop. And then she comes at me and I’ve had enough. I grab the knife block and slam it against her head, sending her to the ground.
Taking a step, the world sways and moves and a wooziness moves through me.
Pain, too.
Which is strange, because apart from the emotional pain, I’m fine. I’m… I stagger and hit the side of the bench, a dull ache hitting me hard in the chest and my T-shirt’s sticky.
Raising my hand, I touch something wet on me, and higher there’s something there. Like a handle.
Oh. Shit.
I look down at the knife sticking out of me. A knife. I stagger again, this time starting to fall.
She’s up but moving away from me, grabbing something as a commotion rises at my door. It splinters open as the world starts to fade in and out.
He talks fast, the man who looks like my husband.
And I grab at the knife and tug.
“Brandi, don’t.”
It comes free and he’s there. And everything goes cold and the lights dim.
“Tyler,” I push out through numb lips. “For identical twins, you don’t pass as Travis.”
“Damn it, Brandi, you can’t leave him.”
“I can’t feel it.”
It gets darker and he talks to me, pressing on my chest, his voice soothing.
I’m in shock.
I’m going to die.
But none of that matters.
“Don’t you dare tell him you touched me, asshole.”
And as my eyes get heavier, his voice further away, and curtains of blackness closing over me, I think, even now, he isn’t like Travis.
“I need him.”
“Just hold on.” There are tears in his eyes.
So strange.
I never saw Travis cry.
This isn’t Travis.
I try and tell him I want my husband, I need Travis.
