Todos os capítulos de Twice You: Capítulo 11 - Capítulo 20

The tension in the kitchen is almost physical after the revelation about Harvey and the real Beatrice Ashford. The silence stretches for long seconds, broken only by the incessant rain against the windows and the distant sound of Claire playing somewhere in the house.Declan is still too close, the heat of his body radiating a possessiveness that makes my skin tingle. Luka remains leaning against the counter, watching our exchange like an analyst studying crucial data.“There’s more,” Declan finally says, opening a second folder that was beneath the first. “About how Harvey financed this entire operation.”He spreads documents across the counter—insurance policies, bank statements, contracts with private clinics. My eyes race across the pages, absorbing numbers that make my stomach turn.Eight million dollars in life insurance for Beatrice Ashford-Prescott.Activated on the day of her death.Transferred to offshore accounts three days later.“He didn’t just replace one bride with anot

Evie CallahanFlashback: Dublin, 14 years ago.The October rain beat against the Gothic stained-glass windows of the Berkeley Library with the melancholic persistence typical of Dublin, creating a hypnotic rhythm that Evie Byrne had learned to use as a soundtrack for her studies. The smell of aged paper, old wood wax, and the faint trace of mold that permeated the more remote sections of Trinity College wrapped around her like a familiar embrace. In that sanctuary of academic silence, she was simply a twenty-year-old student, bent over equations that explained how the universe worked.Evie Byrne. The name was written on the cover of her astrophysics notebook in the hurried handwriting of someone who thought faster than she could write. Before the blood, before the gunshots, before her identity was stolen and reshaped by cold American hands — she was simply the girl who preferred the predictability of the stars to the unpredictable chaos of people.Her favorite desk was on the second fl

Evie Callahan PresentThe phone appears like a sinister promise beneath my pillow.It wasn’t there when I lay down. I’m certain of it because I searched this gothic room inch by inch before falling asleep—old drawers, the dark oak wardrobe, and even the space between the mattress and the wrought-iron bedframe. I was looking for anything I could use as a weapon, an exit, or a way to communicate. Declan Callahan doesn’t leave anything to chance.And yet here it is now, at two in the morning, its screen blinking softly against the white linen like a digital ember.I sit up slowly in bed, my heart already racing before my mind fully processes what this means. It’s a cheap disposable model, the kind that doesn’t track location and doesn’t save history. There’s only one number stored in it. No name. Just digits that my fingers recognize before my eyes can fully register them.I pick up the phone with hands that tremble more than I want to admit. The room is submerged in Irish darkness, bro

Sleep pulls me under like a dark, inevitable tide.After the confrontation with Luka in the kitchen, my body simply surrenders. The adrenaline from the failed escape, the humiliation of being predicted and intercepted, the weight of his words echoing in my head—“Don’t make him hunt you”—leaves me exhausted in a way that goes beyond the physical.I fall onto the wrought-iron bed without even changing out of the dark clothes I put on to run. The last conscious thought I have is the smell of damp stone and Irish rain soaked into the walls of this gothic mansion.And then I sink.There is no gentle transition like the one Harvey taught me to induce with controlled breathing techniques. There is no sterile white blank space of a conditioned mind. There is only a free fall through layers of consciousness until I land somewhere much older, much more real.The Dublin wind cuts across my face with the specific cruelty of an Irish autumn.I’m no longer in the stone room. I’m high up—very high—wi

Evie CallahanPresent.The memories won’t stop coming.It’s as if the first crack in the dam has opened the way for a flood—each fragment sharper than the last, each one bringing not just images but complete sensations: the smell of Dublin after the rain, the taste of overly sweet coffee. I drank while studying late, hearing the sound of pages turning in hands that should have been occupied with far more dangerous things.I wake at five in the morning with my face wet from tears I don’t remember shedding. The stone room in the Callahan mansion is submerged in pre-dawn Irish darkness, but my mind is on fire with a clarity that slices through six years of conditioning like a heated blade.Galway.The name surges out of nowhere, bringing with it the scent of sea salt and wet stone, the sound of out-of-tune bells, and the phantom weight of a ring that should never have left my finger.I’m in the back seat of a dark car, watching Irish rain turn the landscape into a blurred watercolor as Du