Her eyes are hot with shameful tears. “I’m not… I can’t…”

“Of course you can—you can embrace anything, if you’re desperate enough. I’ve embraced my own darkness. Don’t you think I know what I am? But I’m one with the darkness now, not apart from it. Only Kristin is my light.” His voice has changed, no longer mocking but serious. “Emma, listen to me. The girl you were is dead.”

“No.”

“Yes. But you can dig into her grave and draw strength from her still. She gave you a lot of things you’re going to need. The anger, for one, and the instinctual fear, and the ruthlessness you used to escape. You’re going to rely on all those things when he comes.”

“The Butcher?” Emma latches on to his meaning. “You’re sure he’s coming?”

“Of course. I’ve been sure for months. I’ve just been waiting for the day to arrive.”

And suddenly the insight is there before her, glittering like a diamond. “You know who he is, don’t you?”

There’s a knock on the oak door. Pradeep moves from his chair to attend to it.

Simon holds her eyes. “I believe we have another visitor.”

“Simon. Tell me.”

He angles himself away. “Do you know the story of Turandot at all? She has to discover the prince’s name before dawn. The lyrics of the aria are particularly apt. Il nome suo nessun saprà, e noi dovrem, ahimè, morir, morir.… I think we should listen to Pavarotti sing one more time.”

“Simon?” Into the beat of silence, Kristin Gutmunsson’s voice quavers out.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Simon’s sister is standing near the desk, with Bell standing close behind.

Emma catches the movement as Simon looks up. In the same moment, she realizes that he never expected Raymond to keep his promise, to allow his twin to come.

“Kristin.” Simon’s whisper travels the length of the room. His surprise leaves him almost tenderly vulnerable.

Emma sees Kristin gasp and press her midriff. Dressed in the same costume she wore to Quantico, she looks like a glowing star in the chapel: complexion radiant with two high dots of color, white hair flowing loose. Then Simon’s sister moves, faster than Bell or Pradeep can catch her, bolting forward and slipping between the sawhorses, reaching for the bars.

Emma jerks forward. “Kristin!”

But Kristin is pressing herself against the metal, clasping her brother’s hands, touching his face, as Simon strains forward to kiss her cheek, press his forehead to hers. Kristin is crying. Simon’s eyes are glistening. Their matched coloring makes them hard to distinguish from each other.

They really are one flesh, Emma thinks numbly. Two people connected at the most basic level, through blood and breath shared in the womb, skin and muscle and hair and nails formed from the same material.

But the division was imperfect: Instead of two mirror images, they are one being split apart—Kristin the repository of the single soul, and Simon the beneficiary of pure mind. Between them, one beating heart.