Twinsequences (A Twisted Twin Series) (51 page)

be
 okay.
 We
 were
 two
 minutes
 from
 home.
 
 
The
 old
 man
 just
 stood
 there
 shaking
 his
 head
 and
 trying
 his
 best
 not
 to
 look
 
toward
 the
 opposite
 side
 of
 my
 car.
 
While
 he
 just
 stood
 there,
 I
 called
 out
 for
 them,
 over
 and
 over
 again,
 with
 not
 
a
 single
 sound
 in
 return.
 
I
 don’t
 know
 how
 long
 it
 was
 before
 help
 arrived.
 The
 emergency
 workers
 
started
 on
 my
 side
 and
 I
 couldn’t
 understand
 why.
 I
 yelled
 for
 them
 over
 and
 over
 
again
 to
 help
 the
 girls.
 Hell,
 I
 knew
 half
 of
 the
 guys
 there.
 Maybe
 they
 had
 gotten
 out
 
of
 the
 car
 already
 and
 they
 were
 just
 on
 the
 side
 of
 the
 road
 getting
 looked
 at?
 
It
 wasn’t
 until
 they
 brought
 out
 the
 Jaws
 of
 Life
 and
 started
 cutting
 me
 out
 of
 
my
 car
 that
 I
 realized
 the
 extent
 of
 the
 accident.
 As
 my
 body
 was
 pulled
 away
 from
 
the
 wreckage
 I
 looked
 back
 and
 saw
 why
 nobody
 would
 give
 me
 an
 answer.
 The
 
entire
 passenger
 side
 of
 my
 car
 was
 crushed
 against
 the
 steel
 walls
 of
 the
 truck.
 As
 
they
 strapped
 me
 down
 to
 the
 gurney,
 I
 screamed
 out
 for
 my
 girls,
 over
 and
 over.
 
This
 couldn’t
 be
 happening.
 It
 had
 to
 be
 a
 dream.
 It
 had
 to
 be…
 
“Sheriff,
 can
 you
 hear
 me?
 Sheriff
 Towers?”
 
I
 looked
 up
 from
 my
 desk
 and
 realized
 that
 I’d
 been
 daydreaming
 again.
 It
 
happened
 every
 single
 day
 since
 the
 accident
 last
 year.
 When
 I
 lost
 my
 girls,
 I
 lost
 all
 
of
 my
 reasons
 for
 living.
 I
 didn’t
 want
 to
 survive
 that
 accident.
 I
 shouldn’t
 have.
 
 
This
 was
 my
 punishment.
 
I
 closed
 myself
 off
 from
 the
 rest
 of
 our
 family,
 unable
 to
 live
 with
 the
 burden
 
of
 being
 the
 driver
 that
 night.
 I’d
 killed
 my
 girls
 and
 I
 would
 never
 be
 able
 to
 forgive
 
myself.
 
 
After
 it
 all
 happened,
 I
 gave
 up
 on
 working,
 paying
 bills,
 and
 having
 a
 life
 at
 
all.
 The
 bank
 took
 the
 house
 and
 with
 little
 left
 in
 my
 savings,
 I
 moved
 to
 West
 
Virginia
 to
 a
 little
 town
 where
 I
 wouldn’t
 have
 to
 talk
 about
 what
 had
 happened
 to
 
me.
 I
 was
 sick
 of
 the
 whispers
 and
 condolences.
 Didn’t
 they
 know
 that
 the
 mere
 
mention
 of
 their
 names
 brought
 back
 every
 single
 beautiful
 moment
 of
 our
 life
 
together?
 Couldn’t
 they
 fathom
 that
 I
 didn’t
 want
 to
 have
 to
 imagine
 living
 out
 a
 full
 
life
 and
 never
 being
 able
 to
 hear
 them
 tell
 me
 that
 they
 loved
 me?
 Did
 they
 know
 
what
 it
 was
 like
 to
 sleep
 in
 my
 daughters
 room
 and
 cry
 like
 a
 small
 child?
 Had
 they
 
not
 considered
 that
 every
 single
 thing
 in
 my
 life
 reminded
 me
 of
 my
 girls?
 It
 had
 
become
 too
 much
 to
 handle.
 
Making
 the
 move
 was
 the
 easiest
 of
 decisions.
 An
 old
 friend
 got
 me
 the
 job
 
and
 had
 put
 in
 a
 good
 word
 for
 me.
 The
 town
 was
 small
 with
 only
 two
 thousand
 
people.
 I
 found
 a
 cabin
 about
 five
 miles
 down
 a
 mountainous
 country
 road,
 off
 the
 
beaten
 path.
 
 
I
 just
 wanted
 to
 be
 alone;
 to
 be
 able
 to
 live
 out
 my
 life
 in
 seclusion.
 I
 wasn’t
 an
 
idiot.
 With
 the
 internet
 out
 there,
 it
 was
 obvious
 that
 some
 people
 would
 know
 the
 
truth.
 Still,
 not
 one
 of
 them
 had
 the
 balls
 to
 mention
 my
 past
 to
 me.
 I’d
 rather
 them
 
fear
 me,
 then
 ask
 the
 questions
 that
 I
 would
 never
 have
 been
 able
 to
 answer.
 
“Sheriff,
 are
 you
 alright?”
 My
 deputy,
 Shelton
 Morris,
 asked
 again.
 
I
 shook
 off
 the
 flashback
 and
 put
 on
 a
 fake
 smile.
 “Yeah,
 sorry.
 I
 was
 just
 
thinking
 about
 something.”
 
“You
 want
 to
 talk
 about
 it?”
 Shelton
 was
 a
 nice
 kid.
 He
 was
 in
 his
 early
 
twenties
 and
 his
 Grand
 pappy
 had
 been
 the
 last
 sheriff
 for
 the
 past
 forty
 years.
 He
 
died
 of
 a
 massive
 heart
 attack
 six
 months
 ago.
 
“Nah,
 it’s
 all
 good.
 What
 were
 you
 saying?”
 I
 had
 to
 keep
 up
 the
 charade
 that
 I
 
was
 just
 one
 man.
 They
 wouldn’t
 be
 able
 to
 understand
 what
 it
 was
 like
 to
 lose
 
everything.
 Not
 one
 day
 went
 by
 where
 I
 hadn’t
 asked
 myself
 why
 I
 had
 lived
 and
 
they
 had…died.
 
 My
 girls
 were
 in
 my
 heart
 and
 the
 flashbacks
 were
 enough
 of
 a
 reminder
 that
 
I
 had
 taken
 their
 lives.
 I
 just
 wanted
 to
 do
 my
 job
 and
 go
 home
 without
 the
 stares
 or
 
the
 burning
 questions.
 
“Listen,
 I
 know
 you’re
 new
 here,
 but
 it
 ain’t
 good
 to
 hold
 things
 in.
 If
 you
 ever
 
need
 to
 talk,
 just
 let
 me
 know.
 You
 seem
 like
 maybe
 you
 need
 a
 friend.
 You
 been
 
here
 for
 nearly
 six
 months
 and
 nobody
 knows
 a
 dang
 thing
 about
 you,
 cept
 for
 what
 
they
 read
 about.
 I’m
 just
 sayin’,
 if
 you
 need
 a
 buddy,
 we
 can
 have
 beer
 sometime.”
 
I
 put
 on
 a
 fake
 smile
 and
 stood
 up
 from
 my
 desk.
 “I
 appreciate
 that.
 I’m
 good.
 
Just
 not
 real
 used
 to
 the
 quiet
 out
 here.
 I’m
 finding
 it
 hard
 to
 sleep
 at
 night.”
 The
 
sleeping
 part
 was
 true,
 but
 it
 wasn’t
 because
 of
 the
 quiet.
 It
 was
 because
 I
 was
 alone.
 
I
 was
 a
 broken
 man
 and
 I
 couldn’t
 be
 fixed,
 not
 by
 a
 therapist,
 or
 even
 a
 buddy.
 
There
 was
 no
 hope
 for
 me.
 
Shelton
 shook
 his
 head
 and
 smiled
 back.
 “Alright,
 man.
 Well,
 I
 need
 to
 run
 out
 
and
 check
 on
 Mrs.
 Parks.
 She
 claims
 that
 someone
 keeps
 vandalizin’
 her
 mailbox.”
 
“That’s
 real
 crime
 there.”
 This
 was
 what
 we
 dealt
 with
 in
 this
 town.
 We
 didn’t
 
have
 gangbangers
 or
 drive-‐bys.
 
 
“Yeah,
 well,
 it’s
 a
 job!”
 Shelton
 laughed
 as
 he
 walked
 out
 the
 door.
 I
 waited
 for
 
him
 to
 leave
 before
 standing
 up
 and
 getting
 another
 cup
 of
 coffee.
 The
 flashbacks
 
were
 worse
 when
 I
 didn’t
 sleep
 the
 night
 before.
 I
 usually
 had
 bourbon
 to
 help
 with
 
that,
 but
 the
 more
 I
 used
 that
 as
 a
 solution,
 the
 less
 it
 worked.
 
This
 was
 my
 life.
 It
 was
 never
 going
 to
 be
 any
 better.
 
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter
 2
 
Vessa
 Jean
 
Mornings
 were
 so
 hard
 for
 me,
 considering
 that
 I
 was
 usually
 up
 until
 two,
 
closing
 out
 the
 bar
 that
 I
 bartended
 at.
 My
 life
 didn’t
 just
 revolve
 around
 my
 job
 
though;
 I
 had
 two
 kids
 that
 needed
 to
 be
 taken
 care
 of.
 Sure,
 their
 dad
 was
 around,
 
but
 between
 his
 job
 doing
 tattoos
 at
 the
 shop
 and
 his
 outside
 customers,
 he
 wasn’t
 
home
 that
 much
 to
 be
 able
 to
 manage
 the
 kids
 schedules.
 Not
 that
 I
 expected
 it
 out
 
of
 him
 either
 way.
 He
 was
 pretty
 much
 worthless
 when
 it
 came
 to
 being
 responsible.
 
I
 loved
 my
 children.
 They
 were
 my
 whole
 world.
 Asha
 was
 ten
 and
 Logan
 was
 
almost
 six
 and
 with
 their
 opposite
 personalities,
 they
 were
 sometimes
 hard
 to
 
handle.
 They
 fought
 a
 lot,
 making
 my
 life
 even
 harder
 at
 times.
 Gavin,
 my
 husband,
 
was
 never
 there
 to
 see
 any
 of
 that
 though.
 
His
 parents
 were
 still
 pretty
 young
 and
 had
 two
 kids
 that
 were
 in
 school
 
themselves.
 My
 husband
 happened
 to
 be
 their
 accidental
 teenage
 pregnancy
 that
 
had
 led
 to
 their
 twenty
 five
 year
 marriage.
 Unfortunately,
 as
 much
 as
 they
 loved
 
their
 grandkids,
 they
 were
 much
 too
 busy
 working
 and
 raising
 their
 two
 youngest,
 
Gabe
 and
 Gwen.
 Yeah,
 they
 went
 with
 all
 the
 same
 letters.
 
 
My
 mother
 died
 when
 I
 was
 sixteen
 of
 an
 aneurism,
 due
 to
 complications
 
from
 a
 rare
 form
 of
 brain
 cancer.
 She
 was
 fine
 when
 I
 went
 to
 school
 and
 by
 the
 time
 
I
 came
 home
 she
 was
 gone.
 My
 father
 did
 a
 pretty
 good
 job
 raising
 me,
 but
 he’d
 
drank
 himself
 to
 death
 and
 died
 of
 liver
 failure
 three
 years
 ago.
 Ever
 since
 then,
 I’d
 
had
 to
 depend
 on
 myself
 for
 everything.
 
I’d
 been
 with
 Gavin
 since
 we
 were
 fifteen
 years
 old.
 Our
 on
 again
 off
 again
 
relationship
 through
 high
 school
 was
 like
 gasoline
 to
 the
 fire.
 At
 times
 it
 was
 
downright
 violent
 and,
 for
 some
 reason,
 we
 both
 kept
 coming
 back
 for
 more.
 When
 I
 
got
 pregnant
 at
 seventeen,
 it
 was
 pretty
 much
 a
 given
 that
 we
 were
 going
 to
 get
 
married.
 His
 parents
 wanted
 us
 to
 be
 just
 like
 them
 and,
 much
 to
 our
 surprise,
 we
 
had
 made
 a
 pretty
 good
 life
 for
 ourselves.
 Granted,
 we
 worked
 our
 butts
 off
 and
 
rarely
 had
 time
 for
 each
 other,
 but
 what
 married
 couple
 with
 young
 children
 did?
 
Gavin
 started
 doing
 tattoos
 when
 he
 was
 twenty
 one.
 He’d
 always
 been
 great
 
at
 art
 anyway,
 so
 it
 just
 made
 sense.
 He
 started
 working
 for
 the
 current
 shop
 he
 was
 
at
 about
 four
 years
 ago.
 An
 old
 friend
 of
 his
 started
 it
 and
 added
 Gavin
 to
 the
 list
 of