The captain pushes past me through the entranceway to place a small contraption on the front door. A beam of light scans the handle and frame, checking for fingerprints. Our names, Ava Goodwin and Darren Goodwin, hover above the detected prints in little spheres.
“Scan every surface,” the governor orders as he advances to our computer. He inserts a thin strip into the hard drive, and thousands of our private files are copied in an instant.
The captain covers our house with his contraption’s penetrating white light. Tables, windows, stairs, cabinets, floorboards, walls, silverware—every object produces spheres that float around us like someone just wished on a dandelion. Ava Goodwin, Darren Goodwin, Governor Howard Roth, Victoria Roth, Halton Roth, Gwen Meyer.
But not a single petal reveals an unregistered print.
I move closer to my father when a frustrated Governor Roth approaches the space dangerously close to the hidden basement entrance. He presses his ear against the wall, and my nerves suddenly start to fracture.
Using his balled fist as a hammer, he strikes the wall, searching for hollow spaces. Panic floods my mind at the thought of discovery. My legs scream to flee, but I am also consumed with the deranged desire to attack the governor and protect my family. I do neither of these things, however. I simply stand silent next to Father, disciplined by my training.
My hand finds Father’s. Do something, my fingers beg.
“Governor, if you tell me what you are looking for, I can lead you to it without having my house further destroyed,” Father says, advancing toward him.
Distracted, the governor turns around, his hand dropping to his side before he can strike twice. His gaze, filled with unchecked disdain, lands on Father. “If you try to impede this investigation again, I will have my soldiers escort you to the military car in handcuffs, Dr. Goodwin.”
Darren. The governor always honors my father by addressing him by his given name. The leash has been unquestionably cut.
The captain approaches the governor and speaks quietly into his ear. Roth nods, revealing nothing. He scans the house a final time, his cold eyes targeting me.
With the awkward sound of stretched leather, Governor Roth straightens to his full height and walks stiffly to my father. He steps over the broken glass frame that contained the hologram of my mother.
“My men will clean up the mess,” the governor says with no hint of apology.
“That will not be necessary, Governor,” Father says. He opens the front door and stands there firmly, his body language demanding an immediate exit.
“Report to my office in the morning, Dr. Goodwin,” the governor says before slamming the door shut.
I finally exhale and breathe.
Spotlights gone, we are left in darkness.
“Room, lights on—” Father presses his hand over my mouth before I can finish the command.
“The lights must stay off,” he whispers hot in my ear. He grabs his tablet and sends out a signal that spreads across the room like a blue wave. I watch unnerved as it invades every cavity and corner, searching.
“You think they bugged the house?” A heavy ball of terror forms in my stomach.
Father’s title as the head of the Texas Family Planning Division requires him to supervise and administer all public healthcare, but his most difficult and important task is to uphold the country’s one child law. He is responsible for ensuring no couple has illegal multiple children in the State of Texas. If it were revealed that the Division Director himself, a member of the inner circle, has been hiding an illegal twin daughter for almost two decades, Governor Roth would be humiliated. His entire political career would be threatened.
There’s a secret place—somewhere in the darkest part of me—that has been waiting for this moment all my life. The moment Mira and I are caught and separated, taken away screaming to our reckoning.
I glance anxiously out the living room window and see the captain hand-launch a surveillance drone before getting into the driver’s seat of the governor’s black luxury car and pulling away, two military vehicles following behind. A few brave neighbors observe the scene from their lawns, and I wonder fleetingly if they stand there out of concern or for the show.
The tablet gives a high-pitched ping. All clear.
Intent, Father moves up the staircase, and I instantly follow him like he’s my lifeline. Again he sends out the wave of light in the hall. Ping. All clear.
I linger in the doorway and take in our ransacked bedroom. This space is just for show, merely a piece in the game. Our true selves do not adorn these four walls—that is reserved for the basement we share. But it doesn’t prevent the heat that suddenly surfaces when I see our raided room.
The covers are a twisted mess on the floor, the mattress flipped over and cut. The dresser is hurled onto its side, the drawers tossed open, piles of our panties thrown across the ground. A quiet rage burns through me. Rage that the soldier touched our personal things without my permission. Rage at how vulnerable it makes me feel. How powerless.
“Father, where is she?” I ask again.
“Pack the essentials. We must be ready by the time she comes back,” he answers.
I hug my trembling body, on the verge of outright panic. It’s all happening too fast. “But they left. We can stay, Father! They found nothing . . . There’s no proof!”
He seizes me by the shoulders, forcing me to focus on his face. “Ava, listen. My division hasn’t found a case of hidden multiples in sixty years. The very idea of eighteen-year-old twins is inconceivable. But someone reported us. Someone knows.”
I shake my head, disbelieving.
“The governor will return, and he will be relentless in his attempts to find the truth. Do you understand what I am saying?”
“We will be more careful. I’ll finish out the semester, and Mira will just stay hidden,” I insist.
“They won’t stop until they discover our secret, Ava. We don’t know who tipped them off, how many eyes could be watching us. And after failing tonight, the governor will certainly add many more to that number. We have to leave.”
Father grabs a knife from his pocket and places it into my hands. “Wait for me downstairs. I’ll need to cut out your microchip. They’ll be tracking you now.”
The National Security Agency would not usually waste resources monitoring the college-age daughter of a prominent government official. There are millions of high-risk targets more pressing than a seemingly average young girl, so unless you give them a reason to flag you, they will not track you. Father could access the system to know for sure if I’ve been flagged, but his refusal to listen to my pleas tells me we are beyond that now.
The weight of the heavy blade rests in my open palm and it’s like he’s just handed me the key to a forbidden room. I know I will open the door to a dark, cavernous space, and I will have to walk through it blindly. I lock eyes with my father.
I must have courage. “No. I’ll do it myself.”
With a stiff nod, he moves out the door to continue his search. Another ping rings through the air. All clear.
But nothing seems clear at all.
MIRA
I crouch, patient and still, poised to run.
Pressed against a neighbor’s fence, I scan the streets once more. I’ve verified numerous times that no Guards or agents remain in the area. All spectators have gone inside; all lights are out. Yet I remain rooted to my hiding place.
I spare a quick glance at my tablet. 2:50 a.m. You can’t hide from our fate. Move. I take one step and then another, choosing my path carefully but swiftly behind the row of quiet houses, using the darkness as my cloak.
My right ankle throbs with each slap of my naked feet against the hard concrete, but I keep moving. Our two-story home comes into view, and the pain of what waits for me inside that dark and silent house outweighs any physical pain. Did the Guard take them?
Oh God.