Page 26 of Parallel

“I know which Nick you are,” she says with a soft, husky laugh.

I inhale, fighting the temptation to make this a social call. To joke around with her and ask how her day is. I’ve never once struggled to act professional until Quinn came into the picture. “I was just checking to see how you’re feeling today, and if you had any side effects from the meds.”

“No side effects,” she says. “But they didn’t work, either.”

I sit up a little straighter. “So you had more dreams.”

“Yeah,” she says, sighing. “They’re getting worse. I’m not just seeing things from London anymore. I’m seeing things from college and childhood. I know what your kitchen looked like as a kid. I remember being in the treehouse with you and Ryan, and—”

My circulatory system whirs to a halt. I’m so stunned by the mention of my twin that I cut her off, my voice sharper than I’d intended. “How do you know about my brother?” I demand. He’s been gone for over a decade. The only reason I mentioned him to Meg at all was because I had to warn her before she met my mom.

“How do I know about any of this?” she replies, with an exasperated exhale. “I thought we were past the point where you accused me of stalking.”

I bury my head in my hands. Of all the things she’s known, this is the first one that actually kind of scares me. I don’t believe in ghosts but if my dead brother wanted to fuck with me he’d pull a stunt just like this. “We are. I’m sorry. It was just a shock hearing you say his name.” Even my parents won’t talk about him now, at least not in front of me. I’ve often wondered if this is because they know I blame myself for what happened, or if it’s because they blame me too.

She pauses. “Did…something happen to him?”

“He died. In high school.”

“Oh,” she says, her voice catching. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I assure her. “Really. You didn’t do anything wrong, and it all happened a long time ago. I just was shocked to hear you mention his name.” She’s silent. It makes no sense, but I know she’s grieving Ryan’s death, and it feels like she has a right to. “Are you okay?” I ask.

“It’s just strange,” she whispers. “I had that dream last night, and it’s like this whole box of new memories opened up. A lot of them about you, but a lot of them are about him too, as a child. I just can’t believe…I’m sorry. Never mind. What were we talking about?”

I run a hand through my hair. There’s a whole lot more to unpack here, but I’m not sure I’m ready to hear it. “You were saying the drugs didn’t work.”

“Right. So is there something else I can take to stop the dreams? Something stronger?”

“We can try something else, but…Quinn, if the Prazosin didn’t work, I really doubt anything else will either.”

“Okay,” she says. “Maybe it will go better tonight.”

The conversation has reached its natural end but I’m just not ready to let her go. “Are you back at work?”

She gives a low laugh. “Could you tell by the abject misery in my voice?”

It bothers me that she’s at that job. It’s just wrong. “Why didn’t you go back to school for architecture when you returned to D.C.?” I ask abruptly.

She hesitates. “It’s complicated.”

I want to keep her on the phone, but I’ve pushed this as long as I can. “Okay, well, give the meds another shot, and if they’re still not working, we can try something else.”

She thanks me and hangs up. But I sit here, still holding the phone like a lovesick teenager.

14

QUINN

“I’m so glad you’re here,” I whisper to Nick. He grips my hand hard through the tangle of wires—IV, blood pressure cuff, oxygen monitor—hinting at anxiety he’s trying to keep to himself. He’s used to hospital rooms, but usually he’s the one barking orders, not the one sitting and praying all will be well.

And in this moment, I suddenly feel certain it won’t be.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” I whisper. “It won’t make sense, but I need you to—” I’m cut off mid-speech by a pain so sharp it knocks the words from my brain. His hand tightens. I’ll be bruised by it when this is done.

“It’s going to be okay,” he says, but I see in those circles under his eyes, the greenish pallor beneath his tan, that he is no more certain of that than I am. And he doesn’t even know everything: all the horrible truths that have come back to me only recently. I picture him and Ryan as boys and I flinch. The things I did in that other life—would he have forgiven me eventually? I’ll never know.

The pain hits again, another wave, wiping my brain clear of its mission, leaving only the panic behind. I struggle to focus around it. “My mother…my mother will explain everything.” I cling to his hand so I’m not swept away. “About the Rule of Threes. I’m sorry…I didn’t believe her.”