Of what he knew about her death.

About how he was involved.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, and squeezed his eyes shut. His last view of Arianna, in one of his recurring but ever-changing dreams had been at night, through the shimmer of clear water. Hair floating around her face like a feather cloud, strands caught in the current. Skin that was a white, unworldly hue. Eyes open, as if staring upward, reflecting the silvery shafts of moonlight that had pierced the surrounding trees.

Jesus God.

That face had haunted him for over a decade. He was reminded of Arianna’s pale countenance several times when he’d caught Brianna staring at him. Brianna’s eyes, that same golden hue, and her features, carved so similarly to her twin’s, had brought back the anxiety, the anger, the out-and-out fury that he’d experienced the last time he’d seen Arianna. Yes, there were differences in the two women, but when he’d been with Brianna earlier tonight, twice he’d gotten that same hit, that eerie sizzle of déjà vu, and the sensation that he was looking into the eyes of a ghost.

Guilt nagged at him. From what he’d learned about siblings who’d been conceived and grown in the womb together, there was always an invisible cord linking them. If that connection was severed, the remaining twin often felt inconsolable grief. Wasn’t it true for Brianna? Hadn’t the reason she’d organized the twinless twin meetings been because of her anguish at losing her sister?

His gut clenched and he walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and dragged out the last beer from the six-pack he’d bought earlier in the week. After twisting off the cap and taking a long swallow, he discarded the cardboard pack and headed back to the living room, where he flopped onto the couch and stared at the cold grate.

Maybe it was time to unburden himself.

And what? Face murder charges? How would that help anything?

Another long pull on the bottle. More staring at the blackened firebox.

But still no answers.

He couldn’t let her get away with it.

If he didn’t find a way out of this trap, everything would be ruined. Everything! He couldn’t let that happen. With difficulty he dragged in several deep breaths. Then, assured that his windpipe was intact, he grabbed hold of the edge of the workbench and hauled himself to his feet.

He had tools, lots of them. Crowbars and scissors and wire cutters. And screwdrivers that would fit into the screws holding the hinges of the trapdoor in place.