The Gemini Deception (2 page)

Horrific circumstances had gotten her here, and her unremarkable but satisfying life was about to radically change.

She would miss her work at The Bloom Room, the flower and candle shop where she worked in suburban Philadelphia. Not the day-to-day mundane tasks of cutting and trimming endless roses and arranging bouquets, nor the chatty interactions with customers she had to endure when the shop’s owner was occupied, for she was by nature a loner who loathed small talk. Ryden would miss seeing people’s reactions to the ornate candles that were the outlet for her creative side. At home, she spent most of her time dipping and sculpting the unique creations. Most who bought them at the shop or online declared them far too beautiful to ever touch a match to, and that response never failed to warm her.

The nurse who’d been tending to her came in, white shoes squeaking loudly on the faded linoleum, and smiled when she saw her awake. “How are you feeling?” She checked the nearly flaccid bag hanging from the IV stand.

“Sore,” Ryden replied, “and thirsty as hell. Can I have some water?”

The nurse gave her some ice chips, and as she sucked on them gratefully, she once again explored the unfamiliar landscape of her mouth with her tongue. Porcelain veneers now covered most of her teeth, obliterating the big chip in front that had been with her since the orphanage, when a bigger kid had punched her.

The lawyer who’d brought her here had explained very little of what she was in for next, only that she would undergo extensive training after the operations to prepare her to impersonate someone for a few weeks, perhaps months. Then the threat of prison would be behind her, and she could resume her life.

Three days later, the nurse and doctor came in for the long-anticipated unveiling. She would finally be allowed to see her new self. An unfamiliar woman several years older than Ryden accompanied them. The stranger’s makeup and hair, pulled back in a severe bun, were flawless, and her clothes and jewelry shrieked money. When she introduced herself, her hazel eyes held no hint of warmth.

“I’m Tonya.” The woman extended a well-manicured hand in Ryden’s direction. “I’ll be your tutor during your recovery.”

“Ryden. How’s it going?” She returned the weak handshake before reaching for the remote to the TV on the opposite wall. She’d been watching the inauguration of Elizabeth Thomas, the first female president. A liberal Democrat from Maine, Thomas had served in the U.S. Senate for ten years before her narrow win in the elections nearly three months earlier. Though Ryden muted the sound, she kept the set on, intending to return to the broadcast once her visitors departed.

The doctor reached for a pair of surgical scissors on the tray beside the bed and snipped the sterile gauze wrapped around her head. Then he carefully peeled away the bandages beneath. “You’re a fast healer,” he told Ryden, leaning back with a satisfied expression. “The rest of the bruising will be gone in a few days.” Turning in Tonya’s direction, he added, “Some of my best work. The scars will be virtually undetectable.” He smoothed his thumb lightly over the twin worry lines in Ryden’s forehead, above her nose. “We can get rid of these with a little Botox.”

“Can I see?” Ryden asked impatiently. The doctor glanced at Tonya, who responded to the query with a slight nod, never taking her eyes off Ryden. Her expression gave nothing away of what she thought of the doctor’s handiwork.

The nurse departed, and Ryden returned her gaze to the television while waiting for her to return. The new president was just taking the oath of office. Though Ryden had no real interest in politics, she had voted for Thomas and was glad to see a woman finally take control of the Oval Office.

When the nurse returned with a small hand mirror, Tonya intercepted it and waited for the nurse and doctor to leave before she handed it over.

Ryden cautiously lifted the mirror to her face and gasped aloud. She looked back to the TV, then the mirror—back and forth another two or three times before she finally was able to speak. “Oh, my God.” The realization of who she’d been manufactured to double was chilling. What had she gotten herself into?

Ryden snapped out of the trance when the TV clicked off but was unable to tear her gaze from the bruised but stunning stranger in the mirror. “I look just like—”

“The president,” Tonya said. “And very convincingly, might I add. The eyes are still wrong—you’ll need to wear brown contacts—but otherwise, you’re perfect.”

“I was never told—”

“Security reasons. We couldn’t risk you backing out or talking. But from here on, you belong to us. To the government.”

“What happens when my commitment to you is over? I mean, I’ll still look like her,” Ryden said.

“When that time comes, we will make new alterations.”

“To my face…again.”

Tonya nodded.

“Damn,” Ryden muttered. “The president’s double.”

“Lesson number one: no more profanity,” Tonya said. “And as far as the world is concerned, you
are
the president.”

Philadelphia

Five weeks earlier, December 16

Ryden set the half dozen matching bridesmaid bouquets she’d been working on into the large glass-walled cooler and stepped back to admire her handiwork. The compact arrays of tiny pink tea roses, baby’s breath, and delicate greenery weren’t what she would have chosen, not that any weddings were in
her
future, but she knew the bride-to-be would be delighted.

“What do you think, Shadow? Meet with your approval?” she asked the ebony shop cat as he leapt onto the counter and purred to be petted. The name was apropos. Since she’d rescued him from the city animal shelter, the stray rarely left her side, except to chase down the occasional moth or bug that caught his eye.

Movement out of the corner of her eye made her glance toward the shop window. Tim Lauden was waving at her, and she had to force herself to keep from rolling her eyes. He was later than usual; normally he stopped in around lunchtime and it was now just an hour before closing. Magda Pagoni, the owner of the shop, was unpacking a fresh shipment of poinsettias in the back.

“Got caught up at the office,” Tim said when he walked in. “Hope all the good stuff isn’t gone.”

“It’s all good stuff,” Ryden replied. “What varies is taste.”

“Of course.” Tim leaned over the counter, ostensibly to study what was left of the loose flowers in the bottom tier of the cooler, and Ryden took a step back. He was a friendly guy and she even tolerated the occasional chat with him, but his insistence at flirting with her was at times overwhelming, and so was his tendency to get too close to her. She had little patience for any invasion of her personal space.

He’d come into the shop two months ago for the first time to buy flowers for his mother, who was hospitalized for minor surgery. Though the woman had long since recovered, Tim continued to stop by at least once a week and had become a valued customer. He never ordered a ready-made bouquet, instead choosing something seasonal in stock—something that would take Ryden time to put together.

She had begun to wonder what he did with the flowers once he left the shop, since his visits were clearly now just an excuse to see her. Tim was in his mid-forties, with a perpetual five-o’clock shadow, receding hairline, and a beer belly that protruded over his belt. From their chats, she’d gleaned that he spent most of his time watching television, usually war documentaries on the History Channel. Ryden had no illusions about her own attractiveness; she considered herself average at best. But if Tim was the best she could do, then no wonder she’d rather be alone.

Magda, who’d caught on to Tim’s intentions immediately, tried to play matchmaker by making herself scarce during his visits. Although Ryden had made it clear that she wasn’t interested in him or in anyone else, for that matter, Magda’s winks and meaningful smiles never ceased. Her intentions were as well meaning as all of her other attempts to get closer to Ryden, but as she did with everyone else in her life, Ryden kept her employer at arm’s length. She had no close friends, only colleagues and acquaintances.

“The roses look beautiful today,” Tim said. He was always very courteous and the perfect gentleman, but Ryden despised idle conversation, and most of their interactions lately had consisted of inane exchanges about the weather or flowers. Having been raised in foster homes where no one really cared for her opinion, or thought it silly if not meaningless, she had become accustomed to keeping her thoughts, dreams, and talents to herself. Now, as an adult, not only didn’t she feel the need to share, but she viewed everyone who showed any interest in her as an intruder who could potentially ridicule or reject who or how she was.

“Yup.”

“And oh, my…” He stepped over to the table where her candles were displayed. She’d added several this morning with Christmas colors—red and green, silver and gold. “Look at all the new ones.”

“Made ’em this week.”

“You really are very talented.”

Ryden blushed every time he commented on her work. She hated herself for feeling flattered, especially because she knew all Tim wanted was a date. “Yeah, well,” she stammered. “I try.”

“You should show these to specialty shops. I know some.” Tim hoisted one of her larger pieces toward the fading sunlight streaming in through the window so he could better see the delicately sculpted detail work. “I’m sure they’d sell like crazy, and who knows? Maybe someday you could have your own little place.”

“Yeah, maybe. Though the economy being what it is, I doubt candles are the next big must-have item on everyone’s spartan shopping list.”

“You never know.”

“So, what kind of flowers would you like today?”

“Why won’t you let me help you?” Tim asked. “I know people who might be willing to invest.”

“Nah. I’m fine where I am, but thanks all the same.”

Tim was being pushier than usual, and all Ryden wanted was to close the shop and go home. She was tired and hungry and couldn’t wait to start work on her candles. “What’ll it be, Tim?” she asked again, trying to sound polite.

But he was apparently determined to linger, asking endless questions about every type of flower they had and taking forever to make up his mind. By the time she could start to put the bouquet together it was closing time. Magda wished them good night with the usual wink on her way out.

Ryden handed the bunch to him ten minutes later. “Well, I need to close up, so—”

“Let me walk you home.”

“Thanks, but…I prefer you didn’t.”

“Maybe next time.” Tim smiled.

“Yeah, maybe.” She walked him to the door and opened it. “Good night then, and thanks.”

“Think about my offer, okay?”

“Sure, will do.” Ryden practically shut the door on his ass and sighed with relief.

Fifteen minutes later, she’d taken care of the cash and prepped everything for the next day. She was about to lock up when she got an eerie feeling that someone was watching her. She’d never been afraid of walking alone at night, or pretty much anything else; if she’d survived five foster homes and bully foster siblings, she could handle anything. But right now, something was making her skin crawl.

“You’re imagining things.” Talking aloud to herself was an old habit, the result of living alone all her adult life. For some reason, she found it comforting, especially when she was stressed.

She scanned the street carefully before she latched the door to make sure she was alone, just in case she needed to go back inside. All the other shops around were shuttered tight, the street devoid of pedestrians. When she didn’t detect any sign of movement, Ryden locked up and walked briskly down the block. She was about to chalk it up to paranoia when the eerie feeling returned. “You’re overreacting, scaredy-cat, and need to cut down on Fearnet.” But she started to walk even faster, occasionally looking behind her. By the time she’d reached her apartment, she was out of breath.

Ryden slammed the door shut behind her and locked it, then went to the window that overlooked the street. Peering through a slit in the heavy curtain, she waited to see if someone was lurking outside. When she’d seen nothing suspicious after ten minutes, she made her way to the kitchen to defrost dinner, but the uncomfortable feeling of being watched stayed with her all night. Even her candle making didn’t stop the uneasiness; she occasionally got up to hide behind the curtain and check the street.

At two in the morning, Ryden sat down to watch TV, hoping it would calm her nerves, but she could concentrate on the sitcom about as much as she had on her candle making. She went to check the street one last time before she went to bed, and it was only then, at three a.m., that she got the first confirmation she hadn’t been imagining things.

A faint flicker in one of the long shadows in the park across the street became the silhouette of a man. “Tim? Is that you?” Could he be stalking her? She fished a pair of cheap binoculars from the chaos of her junk drawer and focused on the image. She couldn’t make out the guy’s face but was certain from his tall, hulking build that it couldn’t be Tim. After a minute or two, he sank back into the shadow of a tree and disappeared again. Without bothering to undress, Ryden turned the TV back on and settled down on the couch with a blanket to watch a
Dawson’s Creek
marathon.

*

Martin Graber stepped into the phone booth and impatiently dialed the number. He couldn’t wait to tell the Broker he’d hit the money pot. His hands shook from excitement as a male voice answered on the first ring. “It’s Marty,” he said. “I need to talk to the Broker.”

Her icy voice came on the line seconds later. “And?”

“Good news,” he reported. If this didn’t gain her respect, nothing would.

“About time,” the perpetually unsatisfied voice replied.

“It wasn’t easy.” He felt inflated and confident he’d done a great job. “But we found a match. She’s—”

“I want to see her tonight. If she’s a fit, the transformation can begin.”