The Third Twin

“Oh, God. It’s going to be okay, Daddy. I’ll get an ambulance. Lie still. It’s going to b—”

His hand snaked out to grab her wrist, staining it with his blood. “Listen.”

“Yes. I will. I promise. Just let me call—”

“Listen!”

For a second his voice was as strong as his grip. She leaned over him, inhaling the scent of whiskey on his breath. But the glaze in his eyes wasn’t alcohol-induced.

“Get out of here! Now!”

“Daddy…”

“…be coming…here…next.” He struggled for breath, pushing out the words with desperate effort. “Take…briefcase. Don’t let any…one…get…it. Run! Promise…me!”

His fingers clawed her arm for emphasis.

“Yes. I’ll run.” Anything to make the nightmare stop. “I’ll take your briefcase,” she promised. “I’ll run. I won’t let anyone get it.”

The fingers relaxed their fierce pressure, though he continued to hold her. His eyes closed in pain or exhaustion or both.

“Should…have told you…truth.”

His chest heaved with the effort. There was a rattling sound that terrified her.

“Never mind! Don’t try to talk anymore, Daddy. Let me call an ambulance.”

He opened his eyes. The glassy look faded. For a minute he looked right at her. In his eyes was the father she remembered.

“I love you, Daddy.”

His lips worked into a smile. A trickle of frothy blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. “Good…daughter.” He whispered so softly she had to strain to make out his words. “Made…her…happy. Wish…you’d…been mine.”

“What?”

The rattle intensified. “Run!…Hart…keep.”

More spittle dribbled from between his lips, frothy with blood. His chest heaved with that terrible rattling sound and then he sighed. The hand clutching hers went limp.

“Daddy!”

She shook him. His eyes were fixed and empty. His features were oddly peaceful in death.

Alexis didn’t know how long she stood there, holding his dead hand and crying, but her body was tight with pain when she straightened. Her head throbbed. She swayed slightly, feeling light-headed and weak. Every muscle in her body felt stiff and uncoordinated. And she was so cold. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably.

Swollen red eyes stared back at her from her reflection in the mirror over her dresser. Her face was blotchy from her tears. There was blood on her wrist. She used a corner of the towel to wipe it off.

The apartment buzzer sounded—an imperious summons from someone in the downstairs lobby. She’d forgotten all about her date. It didn’t matter. He’d have to wait. Everything would have to wait. Her father was dead and she didn’t even know what or who had killed him.

Like a somnambulist, she left the room, barely able to think past the horror. The buzzer sounded again, impatiently this time. She couldn’t deal with a date right now. Her father was dead. He’d been so still in death. He’d always been so animated in life.

She entered the living room. The buzzer was an irritant. She wished it would stop. She was so terribly cold. Moving automatically toward the door she paused, staring at the shiny spot of blood on the floor.

“I need you, Daddy.”

The whispered words ended on a broken sob. Except she couldn’t cry anymore. She felt spent. Besides, tears wouldn’t bring him back. Yet her eyes continued to burn with fresh tears.

The buzzer stopped its annoying sound. She swayed, feeling sick. She couldn’t seem to think. She should call for help. Only there was nothing anyone could do to help. Her father was dead.

Run!

He’d told her to run.

Fear slipped past her barrier of shock and grief as the memory of his broken words surfaced. She hadn’t given real thought to how he’d died or why, too caught up in the horror of his death. Now she tried to wrap her sluggish mind around that thought.

Her father had ordered her to go. He’d used his last remaining strength to tell her to run. She pictured the blood, the towel pressed to his abdomen. This hadn’t been some careless, drunken accident. Something far more horrible had happened.

Run!

Her gaze fastened on a large suitcase-shaped briefcase. The dull black leather was nothing like the worn brown case he usually carried—the one her mother had given him years ago when life had been fun and happy.

Lifting the unfamiliar case, she was surprised by its weight. The case was sticky with his blood. Adrenaline shoved aside her shock. Her father had died, struggling to tell her to take the briefcase and go.

She looked around for something to wipe the blood from her hand. Linda’s favorite throw pillow was the closest object. She didn’t care. She had never had liked that shade of orange anyhow.

In the hall outside her apartment, the ancient elevator ground to a halt. The sound was alien. Menacing. No one who lived in the building ever used that elevator. Most visitors took one look and opted for the stairs.

Heavy footsteps started down the hall. Terror seized her. She realized she’d left the front door ajar.

Someone would come here next. Run!

She’d waited too long. Now there was no place to run. Clutching the briefcase against her chest, she snatched up her purse. Mail fell to the floor. She ignored it and darted inside the miniscule hall closet, pulling the door closed.

Her heart threatened to beat its way free of her chest as she heard the footsteps stop in front of her apartment. She sensed more than heard the front door swing open.

Alexis held her breath. With every thud of her heart, she waited for someone to fling open the closet and to kill her, too. Seconds passed. What was he doing? What was he waiting for?

Heavy footsteps moved into the living room. Panic held her immobile as she strained to listen.

The sound of glass crunching beneath an incautious foot put the intruder in the kitchen. Alexis opened the closet. He’d closed the front door. Her fingers felt numb as she turned the handle and slipped into the hall.

The elevator yawned open across from her. A death trap, more so now than ever. But someone was coming up the stairs. In seconds the person would be in view. Or worse, the intruder inside her apartment would open the door at her back.

Alexis ran for the elevator. Flattening her body against the dirty metal panel, she prayed she was hidden from direct view while she strove to control the sound of her raspy breath. The person on the stairs was coming down the hall. Terror left her muscles straining with tension as she battled an urge to run.

Her apartment door opened. “What are you doing here?”

A man’s voice. She didn’t recognize it. She missed the low-murmured response. “Forget it, she’s gone. We’d better go, too.”