Laurel would have to tread lightly over the bastard comment. “And your eyes?”
Abigail’s eyes remained bright. “He hated his eyes and thus hated mine. His father thought he was possessed, that the eyes were a sign of the devil, and he beat the spirit out of our sperm donor, also known as Zeke. So, he hid his eyes from everyone, and he forced me to do so as well. I’ve worn sunglasses or contacts ever since I was a child. Plus, our eyes are so identifiable, you know? And going to college so young, entering the work force as a child, I was enough of a freak.”
“I understand,” Laurel said softly.
Abigail smiled. “Again, meeting you altered my perception. You wear that bizarre combination like it’s part of you, and the colors are truly alluring. I’m rethinking my entire look. Wouldn’t it be enchanting for our outsides to look as similar as our insides?”
Warning ticked through Laurel. “Our insides?”
“Of course. We’re two sides of the same coin, Laurel. Don’t you see it? Don’t youfeelit?” Abigail took another drink.
“No,” Laurel said honestly. “You play games, some I haven’t figured out. I work to save people.”
Abigail’s chuckle was amused and dark. “Oh, honey. You’re smarter than that. With your intelligence and opportunities, you could’ve done anything. Solved the mysteries of the universe. Cured cancer. Traveled to war-torn countries and created food and medicine supply chains. You didn’t.”
Laurel shifted on the chair and wiped more rain off her chin.
Abigail lifted her glass in salute. “You dig into the darkest minds on the planet, the ones filled with real evil, and you hunt them. You’re drawn to them in a way you can’t understand and don’t want to explore, so you appease your soul by chasing them and putting them away. But it’s the draw that catches you . . . not the result.”
“That’s not true,” Laurel challenged.
Abigail shrugged. “Tell yourself what you need to in order to navigate this world, sister. But we both know that the darkness calls to you.”
Laurel couldn’t breathe.
Abigail finished her wine. “Have you ever wondered who you’d be, what you’d do, if you hadn’t been raised by your pacifist, tea-loving mother? The one who went to college and grad school with you, so you were never alone?”
Laurel finished her wine, her mind buzzing.
“You’d be me,” Abigail whispered. She reached for the bottle and refilled their glasses.
“Did you kill your father, Abigail?” Laurel asked quietly.
“Ourfather.” Abigail nudged the now full glass toward Laurel. “Did I hate him? Yes. Did I want to stay away from him for the rest of my life? Yes. Did I kill him? No.” She lifted her own glass. “My looks reminded him of his own, and he’d been taught to hate the way he looked. In addition, I was a female, and a king like him deserved a male heir. Finally, the fact that I was so much smarter than he bothered him to the point that he was sure the devil had put me here to mess with him. When the state took me away after my mother died, he smiled. He actually smiled.” She took another sip of wine. “That’s all you’re getting from me about him, Laurel. Don’t ask again.”
“I’m going to find him.” Laurel didn’t touch her glass.
“God help you when you do,” Abigail murmured. “I’m your blood now, and I’ll be here for you if that ever happens. Trust me. You’re going to need me.”
“All right.” Laurel slid off the stool. “Did you hate your mother for dying? For leaving you with him?” Her mother, who was tall and blond and healthy looking.
“No,” Abigail whispered. “I loved her. Completely.”
Laurel couldn’t read her. “Fine. I need to get going.” She turned toward the front windows and the door.
Abigail swiftly rounded the marble counter. “It’s wet out there. You could stay the night.” Her laugh lacked humor. “We could have a sister slumber party. Watch old movies, talk about boys, and share our hopes and dreams.” While her voice held sarcasm, when Laurel turned around, she finally spotted a rare vulnerability in Abigail’s dual-colored eyes.
“I have to go,” Laurel said gently, her legs stiffening with an urgent need to run. She turned back toward the door, and a flash of silver through the window caught her eye. “Duck!” she yelled, pivoting and leaping for Abigail. Gunfire shattered the heavy glass, and pain burst through her left shoulder.
She landed on Abigail, grabbed her, and scrambled behind the metal door.
Shards of deadly sharp glass fell with a loud crash as the window glass scattered across the hard tile. The gunfire continued, exploding dangerously close, hitting the sofa and spitting cotton tufts through the air.
Laurel ducked her head and shoved Abigail even farther behind her, against the wall. Bullet holes dented the metal above their heads. She caught her breath, her ears ringing, and reached for the gun at the back of her waist. “Stay back,” she ordered, crouching low, using her healthy hand.
“No.” Abigail grabbed her arm and pulled her. “You’ve been shot.”
“I know.” Laurel used her still-working arm, leaned slightly past the door, and fired several shots out the now-destroyed window. She angled her head to glimpse the battered farm truck that had chased her the other night, a figure crouched behind it with an automatic weapon balanced on the hood. He fired again, and she pushed back against Abigail, protecting her.
