Page 64 of The Twins

Hugh Abbott’s gaze on my covered body lingers, and he doesn’t instantly let go of my hand.

It’s too much. “I need to use the restroom.”

“Why?” Carey asks. It’s a silly question, but I notice the panic in her voice.

“Don’t pose such harsh questions, my dear,” Hugh instructs Carey.

“I don’t feel very well. Carey, please, take me to the restroom. The house is too big, and I can’t find my way,” I say through my teeth. I push back the chair, cringing at the screeching sound it makes against the marble floor.

I storm out of the living room, lost in this supposed mansion. Left. Right. My head spins, and my thoughts run wild. I can’t speak. I’m at a loss for words.

Why do I feel triggered?

I sweat where I stand, panting.

“To your left,” Carey says. She grabs my arm and drags me away. She’s tiny and skinnier than me, but she produces enough strength to help me move when I feel blacked out. “Here you go.”

Carey opens the door to one of the many guest restrooms. I don’t need to use it. I just require some time to calm down.

I stare after her as she attempts to shut the door. “I-I don’t feel very well.”

Here I go again, burdening innocent bystanders with my pain.

“What is it!? You were fine a minute ago!” Carey yelps.

“My stomach… I want to throw up,” I confess. A bitter taste climbs up my throat, threatening to spill.

“You’re pregnant!” she squeaks, pacing in front of me. What is wrong with her? She’s almost hyperventilating, sweating harder than me. “When a girl has the attention of a man, it’s normal that he’ll make babies with her. You show off your man on social media all the time!”

“What? No!” Before I can explain my situation—dead womb, barely existent period—, Carey leaves the restroom. She’s not the Carey Jean that’s sassed at me for a month. She sounds like her mom, and it scares me.

My panic attack comes to a full stop, leaving behind a shallow hole in my chest. It takes a moment until I can breathe again. Fuck. I’m not pregnant. I’m repulsed by scary old men. Those are two very different things!

“Here!” Carey reappears, shocking the shit out of me. She holds five pregnancy tests with her hand, and she shoves them at me.

“Where the hell did you get those from?” I ask her.

“Nowhere,” she murmurs.

“Carey, I’m not pregnant,” I tell her, but instead of calming down, the girl goes into a frenzy. She throws the tests into the sink, fuming at me. Her green eyes are that of a child that’s not getting its way.

I don’t want to cause any further drama.

I left my phone on the table. I can’t even call for backup.

“Please, do a test,” Carey begs me, her voice a broken record. She whimpers, and I flinch at the sound. “Please.”

If we stay in this bathroom, we don’t have to entertain Hugh Abbott, the main reason for my breakdown.

I decide to do the tests, one by one. Carey turns around to give me privacy. But her shoulders relax the more tests end up being used.

I don’t know how to handle a child like that, so I do as she says, and I hope that she calms down.

“Carey, is Mr. Abbott hurting you?” I ask while we wait. “Who is he? Why did he come here today?”

Carey doesn’t say a word, but the questions run circles in my head.

I can’t accuse a random man of being a pedophile, but I can detect red flags. And that man’s a walking red flag. “Carey, stay with me.”

---