The Day Before (18 page)

Sam looked up at the sky through the lacy veil of leaves. There was no way her parents were involved with cloning of any kind. Which meant this wasn't happening. Any minute, she would wake up from this nightmare. Maybe.

I'm
not
a clone.
She wasn't sure how she was so sure, but every fiber of her being—­everything about her upbringing and life so far—­told her that it wasn't possible.
I'll prove it if I have to.

“How do we do your test?”

“I send a blood sample to the lab in Birmingham.”

“Why not use one of the test kits we have in the office? They used one on Melody Chime's shadow.”

Mac coughed. His cheeks flushed red. “You're too old. The clone marker wasn't introduced until 2048. You were born in 2047.”

Her cheeks warmed with a blush. That was a first. Most the time ­people said she was too young. “Won't they question why a CBI agent's blood is being tested?”

“We send in known samples to make sure the lab is testing correctly on a routine basis. No one will question the test as long as it has two agents' signatures.”

Sam pressed her lips together. “And then what?”

“When we get a negative result back, we start looking at the absolutely impossible options.”

She glanced sideways. Hazel eyes were studying her intently. Mac looked drawn and angry, but she realized with a little shock that the anger wasn't directed at her. “You think the results will be negative?”

“I think it's almost impossible to fake a gene test with a major security firm, but it takes twenty minutes to hack the CBI database and falsify data if you're an agent with a clearance code.”

She raised an eyebrow. “How do you know that?”

“I did it this morning when I couldn't sleep. Marrins spent six minutes as an Indian woman, or at least his genetic profile did. I changed it back!” he said hastily when he saw her expression of disapproval.

“Okay. Fine. Why would anyone do that? Crimes of intent have motives.”

“For Melody Chimes? I think that's identity theft. Someone wanted her life, and they took it. Melody is dead. Melody Doe is Melody Chimes. The thief had to hack a known system, put in her DNA, and list it as Melody's. Difficult, but not impossible.”

“And me?”

“Career assassination. Clones are owned things,” he said with disgust. “If you were a clone, wrapping the Jane Doe case as a suicide would be ruled a confession of murder. You'd have stolen an identity, impersonated a federal agent, and killed her in pursuit of your clone agenda. The media would tear you apart.”

Literally. . .

Still, she held out. “If I don't know I'm a clone—­”

“It doesn't matter,” he said, cutting her off. “A clone has no rights. With the political climate right now?” He shook his head. “You don't stand a chance. With a suggestion of being a clone on your record, your career is over. Even being a clone sympathizer is career suicide right now.”

Sam stared at him. “Who? Who would do that to me?”

He looked pointedly at her bare left hand. “Who hates you enough to ruin your career?”

Only one name came to mind. “Ramirez? My ex? No.” She shook her head. “He might not have loved me, but he doesn't hate me.” Sam paced some more. The clock over the local church chimed one. “I need to get back to the office. What did Marrins say about all this?”

“Marrins?”

“Yes, Marrins, the fat senior agent in charge of my career. What did he say about this?”

“I haven't told him.”

“Why not?”

“Because it would be even easier for him to change your data than your ex-­boyfriend in Toronto. Marrins is a misogynistic bigot with a chip on his shoulder, and you're everything he hates.”

Sam stared, startled by Mac's convictions. Finally, she said, “My, what a paranoid imagination you have, Agent MacKenzie.”

He tipped an imaginary hat. “I blame you.”

“How is any of this my fault?”

“If you hadn't come down to the lab to argue about the case, I never would have gotten mad enough to go digging.” A crooked smile split his tired face. “Initiative is not something I've used in the past few years.”

She smiled back. “Are you going to use that newfound initiative to get some sleep?”

“I'll come home tonight. Right now, I need to bury my tracks in the system and pull up everything I can on Melody Chimes.”

“Altin is going to want a report on that. Can you give him what you have without suggesting I'm Jane Doe's clone?” She managed to say it without her voice breaking.

“There's enough evidence. Her address was wrong. Her DNA match is too perfect.”

“You said that, I still don't understand. Shouldn't a match be perfect?”

“Only if the sample was recent. Over the years, you mutate, that's why you age. Your body is changing. The two-­year difference between specimens should be evident between the Melody Doe sample and the Melody Chimes sample we have on file. It isn't there.”

“Which means the person posing as Melody Chimes kept a DNA sample.”

“Or altered the file to match.” Mac nodded. “Unless someone discovered a way to travel back in time to dump bodies that I don't know about.” He smiled.

She faked a laugh. “Yeah. Let's not put that option in the report. I don't need to have a psych eval on my record.”

“I'll have something for you and Altin by tomorrow. I can do the blood sampling at the house if you're comfortable with that.”

She wasn't, but she nodded anyway.

“I'm sorry.”

She shrugged. “It's not your fault. You're not the one trying to ruin my life. If anything,” she admitted, “you seem to be helping me.”
And why that is, I'm still not sure.
The clock chimed again, and she began moving back to her office. “I'll see you tonight.”

For better or worse.

S
am was too tense to eat dinner. She left the office early and hid at the gym for three hours, working herself into exhaustion. Bri didn't show. After a six-­mile run, her body demanded calories, so, admitting defeat, she drove home. Mac's truck was parked in the back.

She heard the shower running when she stepped inside. Unless she wanted to hop in and share the hot water, she'd have to stay sweaty.

Sweaty it is.

Grabbing her phone along with some spaghetti noodles, she dialed Brileigh. “Hey, Bri? It's Sam. Where were you today? I missed you at the gym.”

“Gym?” Brileigh laughed. “Sammie, I'm not hitting the gym for another six weeks.”

“Why?” Sam looked in her little freezer for vegetarian spaghetti sauce.

“I broke my leg at the lake,” Bri said, as Sam put the pasta sauce in the microwave to heat. “We went up Monday to get away while the AC got replaced, the canoe fell off the car and snapped my leg in two.”

“Ouch!”

“Tell me about it. Hubby had panic attacks. Ruined the whole vacation for us.” Bri bit into something crunchy, and said around sounds of chewing, “Any word yet from D.C.?”

“No, I don't think I'll hear anything. I botched the interview and sounded like a schoolgirl on a field trip.”

“Oh, sweetie, I'm sorry.”

MacKenzie walked in, towel-­dried brown hair sticking up in wet spikes and wearing some gray sweats that were too short for him. Sam nodded hello. “Sit down. Dinner in a minute.”

“What?” Bri demanded. “Who are you eating with?”

“Someone from work. His apartment got flooded out by Jessica, and there are two other rooms for rent here. He's staying here until he finds other digs. The kitchen is communal.”

“Uh-­huh,” Bri said, not sounding convinced. “Is he hot?”

“Excuse me?”

“Hot. Attractive. Filled with pulchritude. Swervable. Curvy. Solar. Single?”

Sam blinked at MacKenzie. Then turned back to the stove before her eyes started wandering. “No.”

“Then why are you making him dinner? Girl, you need to go find someone so solar you get wet when he smiles.”

Sam laughed. “No, thanks. I don't need any right now.”

“How long is that going to last? When is the last time you had sex?”

“That's classified information.”

“That long, huh?”

Sam dropped the noodles into boiling water and put garlic bread in the oven to heat. “It's no big deal. I'm too busy for all of that right now.” She blushed when she saw MacKenzie watching her. He blushed, too, and looked away. “Listen, Bri, this is a bad time to have this conversation. Can't you come to the gym later this week? Do some weights or something?”

“I can't drive.”

“How are you getting to work?”

“Bus for at least six weeks. I can barely move my hip. And there's no way I'm going to the gym in sweats. I can do arms at home.”

“Bri! I need girl talk.”

“So come over Friday, we'll stay in and watch movies. Hubby can take the kids camping or something.”

“I'll try. Talk to you later. Bye.” Sam hung up the phone in frustration.

“Sorry,” Mackenzie whispered.

“Why?”

“You're unhappy?”

“It's not your fault. Bri broke her leg.” She sighed. “I guess I'll keep hitting the gym alone. I can ignore creepers. Or I could drag you with me.”

“Like the run Friday?” He looked up at her with a lopsided smile, and her stomach flipped. Cleaned up and human . . .

Curse Bri for putting ideas in her head. So far she'd done her best to ignore what was between them. Not an attraction, but an awareness of the strength and intelligence Mac had to offer. Sam turned around before Mac could see her turn red. “Spaghetti for dinner,” she said just a little too brightly. “And then you can stick me with your thing.”

There was a spluttering sound behind her. “Excuse me?”

Sam stirred the sauce with an innocent air. “The blood test? Needle?”

“Sorry, that's not . . . my mind was elsewhere.”

Yours and mine both.
“Why don't you go put on a shirt? You don't want to drip sauce on your, ah”—­she glanced back and turned around quickly—­“self.”
Abs.
When did Agent MacKenzie get abs?

He came back dressed in jeans and a green T-­shirt. Dinner was fast and silent. MacKenzie brought out a needle after he cleared his plate.

“Do you know how to take a blood sample from a living patient?”

With a ghost of a smile he nodded. “Yes.”

Sam held out her arm with bad grace, looking away as he washed a fingertip. His hand was warm and sure.

“Just a little prick.”

“That's what they all say.” She scrunched her eyes closed, only to realize he'd frozen. “Mac?”

“Do you always joke around like this?”

“When I'm stressed, scared, and tired beyond all belief? Yes. I can go back to yelling if you like. I used to just yell. Bri's a bad influence on me. She puts crazy thoughts in my head.”

“I see.” His voice was a little too quiet.

Sam licked her lips. “Sorry. That was unprofessional. I'm not used to being around a coworker after hours.”

He cleaned her finger. There was a pinch, and he squeezed gently. “I'll send the sample out in the morning.”

She looked down at the blood welling on her fingertip. “When will the results be in?”

“In a week or two.”

“Okay. Good.” Standing up, she tried to put some distance between them. This was strange, nerve-­wracking, wrong on so many levels. “Good.” She wiped her hands on her pants, wincing when she saw the bloody streak.

MacKenzie tucked the sample into his kit without a word.

“If . . . if it comes back positive, what are you going to do?”

“What do you want me to do?” he asked without turning around.

She studied her hand. “If I am?” She took a deep breath. “If I am, I want to turn myself in.”

“That won't buy you any leniency.”

“I know. But, if it comes to that, I want to make the choice. It'll be the last thing I do as a free human being. I want to make it mine.”

MacKenzie tensed. “It won't come to that.”

“It might.”

She retreated upstairs to recover. The day had been too surreal. A hot shower behind a locked door, then to bed, with the door locked again. Hoss snored on the floor. She dropped an arm over the side and rubbed his belly . . .

S
he didn't remember falling asleep, but the ringing of her phone woke her before her alarm went off. Wind whipped the oak trees outside.

Two in the morning.

“Agent Rose here,” she said groggily.

“Agent Rose! You must come down here at once!”

“Dr. Emir?” Sam sat up in bed, resting her feet on Hoss. “Dr. Emir, why are you calling me? At all? Senior Agent Marrins is handling your case.”

“Agent Marrins can't help me. Can't help me at all. He doesn't understand. This work is too important.”

Sam rubbed her eyes. “Right.” She yawned. “You realize that it's two in the morning, Doc? Shouldn't you be asleep?”

“This is the only time I could come to the lab knowing he would not be here.”

“He? Agent Marrins?”

“No! The other iteration. He comes to my lab. He is stealing my work. Changing my formulas. He sneaks in here when I'm not looking.”

Hoss whimpered. Sam scratched his ear in commiseration. “He, who, Dr. Emir? One of your colleagues? One of your interns?”

“Not he,” the doctor screeched, “me! I have come here. I change things. He and I.”

Sam checked her phone. It looked like her phone, but this was obviously a dream.

“Agent Rose, I implore you. You must save me.”

“From yourself?” she guessed.