“What do you want to talk about?” she asked tightly.

*  *  *

Carlton let the heavy door slam shut behind him and ran on without looking back: there was another door up ahead, and dim light filtered through a small window near the top. The child’s cry echoed again, and Carlton froze, unable to pinpoint its direction. The high-pitched sound pierced the air again, and he grimaced at the sound: it was raw and thin, the scream of a kid who had been screaming for a long time. Carlton peered through the window in the door—it looked deserted, and he opened the door cautiously, then stopped dead. Everything looked the same: every hall, every room. Lights flickered, speakers hummed. One light seemed to be about to burn out, making a high-pitched screech that echoed through the chamber.

“Kid,” he whispered, but there was no answer, and Carlton was suddenly aware that he may have been chasing echoes and lights for the last ten minutes. He suddenly felt the weight of how alone he was, and it became a physical thing; the air itself seemed to grow heavier around him. His breath slowed, and he dropped to his knees, then fell back to sit. He stared down the empty hallway despairingly, and finally scooted to the side, maneuvering his back against the wall so he could at least see his assailant before he died—whoever—or whatever—his assailant might turn out to be.

I’ve failed. I’m not going to find him. Tears sprang to his eyes unexpectedly. Michael, I’m so sorry. In the days after Michael disappeared, his father had asked him so many questions, going over that one afternoon like he believed together they could re-create it and solve the puzzle. I searched for the missing piece, I promise, I searched. He had gone over every moment of the little party in his mind, desperately trying to find the clue his father needed, the detail that would make everything clear.

There were so many things he could have done to stop what had happened, if he had known then what he knew now.

But now I know it all, and there’s still nothing I can do.

“I failed you, Michael.” Carlton put his hand on his chest, trying to calm himself and not hyperventilate. I failed you, again.

*  *  *

“So, what do you want to talk about?” Charlie repeated. The other Charlie narrowed her eyes.

“That’s better, a lot better.” The girl smiled, and Charlie leaned back as far away from her as she could. It was unnerving to see her own face glaring back at her, accusatory and petulant.

“I’ll listen to anything you want to say, just don’t hurt him more,” Charlie pleaded, her hands raised in surrender, her heart fluttering. Charlie’s duplicate flushed with anger.

“This is why,” she hissed, shaking her finger accusingly.

“What? This is why? I don’t understand,” Charlie cried.