My eyes flutter open, heavy with sleep. Sunlight streams through the window, illuminating the empty space beside me. I sit up, a knot of confusion tightening in my chest as I scan the bedroom. Alone. I rise slowly, reaching for the blue robe draped over the chair, and slip it around my shoulders.
“Liam?” I call out, my voice a hesitant whisper. No answer.
I descend the staircase cautiously, my gaze sweeping the kitchen floor. My breath catches in my throat. A figure lies sprawled on the tile, bathed in the harsh morning light. I surge forward, heart hammering against my ribs, and drop to my knees beside him. With trembling hands, I roll him onto his back, revealing a crimson stain blooming across the white of his t-shirt.
Oh God.
I scramble to my feet, hand clamped over my mouth, stifling a gasp. Then I feel it – a presence, cold and unwelcome. I whirl around, fear spiking through me. A man in a ski mask stands just three feet away, his bright green eyes glinting behind the fabric.
“What do we have here?” he asks, his voice a low, mocking drawl. “Don’t make a sound, love.” The British accent is laced with a chilling smirk. He takes two deliberate steps closer.
He grips my shoulder, and the knife flashes. It sinks into my lower abdomen, a searing pain that steals my breath. My eyes widen, and I collapse to the floor. Blood blossoms around me, staining the floorboards as I try, desperately, to crawl towards the open doorway.
My vision blurs as the man pulls me back, dragging me by my ankles.
“AHHH!” I scream, a raw, desperate sound tearing from my throat.
The wail of sirens fills my ears. The man drops my legs, cursing.
“Fuck,” he spits. “Looks like our time together will be cut short.”
He swings the knife again, this time driving it deep into my back. He twists the blade, then rips it out, repeating the brutal motion on another spot. He flips me over, his eyes scanning me with a cold, assessing gaze.
“You’re a stubborn little thing, aren’t you?” He furrows his brows, then drives the blade into my abdomen again, twisting slowly.
I groan, tears streaming down my face. I don’t beg for my life, don’t cry out in pain. I lock eyes with him, hoping to see something—anything—that might spark a flicker of mercy.
He withdraws the blade slowly, then turns and strides out the back door. I collapse, my body going limp, and darkness swallows me whole.
***
Two years later
“So this is the new place,” Thomas says, his arms crossed as we step inside.
Thomas stands 5’11”, fair-skinned, with dirty blonde hair and blue eyes. He wears dark jeans and a grey shirt, his expression unimpressed.
“It’s bigger than the last one,” I point out.
“You should see your rooms,” Hank smiles. “You get your own ensuite.”
Hank is the same height and build as Thomas, with matching blue eyes and blond hair. They look so alike it makes me wonder if I’ll pull off the deception.
“Did Jonathan give you our IDs, Dad?” Thomas asks.
Hank nods, handing us both driver’s licenses and school IDs.
“Jacob Fitzgerald,” Thomas reads.
“Lachlan Fitzgerald,” Hank reads.
I find my picture pasted in the corner. Shoulder-length, straight blonde hair and blue eyes. My hair is bleached, and I’m wearing contacts. I miss my long, dark ash brown hair and hazel eyes. I’d trade everything to get them back.
“Emma Fitzgerald,” I read.
“So we’re all set,” Thomas says.
“Tomorrow we will start at Lockwood High,” Hank nods.
“We?” Thomas cocks an eyebrow.
“You’re looking at the new history teacher.”
“You? A teacher?” I raise both brows.
“Better than the last job Jonathan assigned,” he starts. “A postman.”
“Don’t you need to be qualified?” I ask.
“Dad has his degree,” Thomas informs me.
Since when? How could I have lived with him for two and a half years and not know he was a qualified history teacher?
“Oh,” I nod. “I still don’t think we’ll be able to pass as twins,” I sigh.
“How many times do we need to go through this?” Hank rolls his eyes.
“This is our third time, Isla,” Thomas reminds me. “No one has ever doubted us.”
Maybe I’m just paranoid. But every time I catch my reflection, even with the blond hair, I know I don’t look like them.
“Exactly. They’ve moved us three times… Maybe we should change our story,” I suggest. “We can be cousins or something.”
“You need to stop worrying,” Hank rolls his eyes while walking through house.
“Just stick to the plan, Isla,” Thomas tells me.
“Easy for you guys to say,” I start. “You don’t see his face every time you blink.”
“Go to hell,” I cry.
“See,” Hank grinds when reentering the room with a smile, “who says you two won’t pass as siblings?”
I sigh.
“Tomorrow I’ll try out for the football team—” Thomas starts.
“No, you won’t,” Hanks firms his gaze. “Are you forgetting what happened last time? You got into the paper—”
“The school paper,” he corrects.
“The time before that, a teacher heard you call her by the wrong name.”
“Ned was on our tail,” Thomas corrects. “That’s why they moved us.”
“I’m going to bed,” I declare, walking through house.
“Isla—” Thomas starts.
“Emma,” I correct as continuing walking. “We don’t want a repeat of last time.” I use his words against him.
“You never know who could be listening,” Hanks nods. “So good night Emma… good night Jacob.”
“Good night… Dad,” I struggle to say as leaving the room.
It pains me to call Hank, my dead boyfriend’s father, Dad. Even though both my parents are gone, it still feels wrong to call someone else Dad.
Tomorrow is a new day. A new school. A new life.