Chapter 9
NINE
Emily
Iget out of the car and slam the door shut.
My eyes lift to the house where my apartment is.
In the garden, on a wooden chair, sits an older woman.
Her gray hair is tied into a messy bun. She wears a white hospital dress, a gray blanket wrapped around her thin frame, and she stares toward the town.
As I come closer, she gives no sign that she recognizes me.
For once, Eureka Springs is not buried under rain or clouds. The sun is out, and she stares right at it, but she doesn’t even flinch.
My gaze drops to her bare feet, covered with mud, to skin wrinkled deep like the bark of an oak tree.
I step closer, pressing my palm to my chest.
“My name is Emily. You were looking for me.”
She smiles.
At first, she said nothing. Then she pulls the blanket tighter around herself.
“Mabel,” she says quietly.
“Mabel,” I repeat, sitting beside her. “Why are you here?”
“Zayne.” She tilts her head toward me, smiling with her yellow, crooked teeth. The wrinkles around her eyes fold into one another as she speaks. “He said you would help me out.”
I look around the garden, searching for any sign of where the neighbor might have gone, checking to see if anyone has noticed her sitting there. I don’t know why I want to hide her. I only know that something tells me she was sent here for a reason.
I stand up and hold out my hand.“Come inside. It’s cold.”
She nods.
I slide my arm under hers and guide her toward the door. As my hand reaches the handle, Daisy’s barking becomes louder from inside the apartment.
“It’s my dog,” I say with a small smile. Something inside me tightens.
I step in first.
Before letting her inside, I scoop Daisy into my arms. The old woman reaches out, her hand trembling. Daisy licks her fingers without hesitation.
Relief washes over me. I trust Daisy’s judgment. When she accepts Mabel, I finally let out the breath I have been holding and guide her inside.
The heating has been running all day. The apartment has already been warm. She folds the blanket as soon as she steps in, then walks slowly to the table and lowers herself into the chair.
Rourke’s file still lies there from the night before, but she doesn’t seem to notice it. I close the door, set Daisy back on the floor, and move into the kitchen.
“Do you want tea or coffee?” I ask.
“Coffee,” she says back.
I nod, grab the kettle, and carry it to the sink. Water rushes in. I move back, set it on the stove, and turn it on to boil.
I lean against the counter and watch her. She takes the opportunity to open the folder and chuckles.
“X-Files,” she says.
“Do you know something about them?” I ask casually as I take two cups from the cabinet.
She pulls out one of the old black-and-white photographs. Her finger presses against a young nurse standing beside a doctor.“That’s me.”
My breathing quickens. My eyes widen as the kettle begins to boil.
I take out the instant coffee, spooning two scoops into each cup, then pour the hot water in.“Milk?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
I carry both cups to the table and sit down, handing one to her. I keep the other in my hands, letting the warmth sink into my fingers.
I look down at the photograph. I see the resemblance, but she is so much older now that it feels unreal.
“It was a different time then,” she chuckles. “The eighties.”
“What was it like?” I ask.
“People definitely didn’t move into other people’s houses,” she says, taking a sip of coffee. “But times change.”
I smile. “Someone moved into your home?”
“Yeah.” She waves her hand. “It’s been eighteen years since I was there, so I expected something to happen.”
“Hm.” I hum softly, lifting the photo again. “Did you know the doctor?”
She nods. “He was a bright man.” She sighs. “Ambitious, too.”
“Aren’t we all?” I smile.
She shakes her head. “Not like him.”
Our eyes lock for a moment. I search her face, but all I see is a woman waiting to tell a story.
“What happened?” I ask. “I got this file yesterday from a detective, and I’m curious.”
“Are you working for them?” she asks, pressing her finger against the name X-Files.
I shake my head. “No.” I smile. “I’m just here to treat a patient. Zayne sent you here.”
“Zayne,” she says, her eyes shining with tears. “That poor boy.”
I look at her, my fingers closing around hers. “What happened?” I ask again.
She presses her lips together, hesitating. Then she shakes her head, her grip tightening around my hand.
“It’s okay,” I say softly. “You can trust me.”
She nods. A tear slips free and trails down her cheek. After a long stretch of silence, she finally parts her lips.
“In 1981, Dr. Alistair came to the institute carrying a little boy in his arms,” she says. “The poor child was not even a day old.” She exhales slowly. “He claimed he found him in a dumpster in front of the institute, but as the boy grew, we all knew that was a lie.”
My throat tightens. “Was that boy Zayne?”
She nods. “Boy Z,” he called him. “He had built a lab in the basement of the institute two years prior. Two cells.” Her voice drops. “Only one was ever used. It was set up like a nursery.”
I swallow hard.
“The doctor made it clear that the child belonged to him now,” she continues.
“He decided to raise him here, away from his wife and his own child. Yes, he had a wife. And a son.” She repeats it, as if forcing the truth to stay real.
“Nurse Maria and I were assigned to care for the boy. He chose us because, at the time, the stress of the asylum had cost us both several miscarriages. He knew we would take good care of the baby.”
Her fingers tremble against mine. “He knew we were vulnerable.”
I squeeze her hand, leaning closer, my chest tight with a feeling I cannot name.
She taps my hand to ground herself, then continues. “We raised him. We taught him how to speak, how to read, and how to be human.” Her voice breaks. “Because the doctor never saw him as a child.”
She looks at me then.
“He saw him as an experiment.”
“But why did he do that?” I ask, my eyes burning. “He was just a boy.”
“At the time, he told us he was trying to find a cure for DID,” she says, a bitter chuckle slipping out. “But we knew that was far from the truth as the boy grew.”
I draw in a slow breath, my gaze fixed on her.
She reaches into the file and pulls out a photograph.
A young boy stares back from the faded image.
She holds it up and says, “Eleven months before he brought the boy to the institute, he was treating a patient named Ezra Zane. He was taking cells. Experimenting. Trying to separate his mind, reduce it to a state of zero. Wipe his memory and create a new person.”
I tilt my head, blinking at her. “Ezra Zane? As in Ozark Butcher Ezra Zane?” I ask, my heart beginning to pound.
She smiles faintly, her fingers tightening around mine until her nails dig into my skin. She doesn’t look away when she says it.
“The cells he took were used to impregnate his own wife. She gave birth to Ezra Zane all over again.” Her voice drops. “He believed that if he started from the beginning, he could cure him of his sick mind.”
My pulse roars in my ears. I shake my head, but she only nods, still holding my hand.
This felt like a movie.
“He subjected the boy to every form of torture disguised as therapy,” she continues. “Over and over, he forced his mind back to zero. But instead of being cured, the boy stopped fearing anything. He absorbed everything the doctor did to him.”
Her grip tightens. “Ezra Zane died in 1981.” She swallows. “But he also lived again. And as the boy grew, he became the very thing the doctor feared most.”
My throat goes dry. “How did he escape?” I ask, barely above a whisper.
She cracks. Tears flood her eyes as her hand flies to her mouth, her palm pressing against trembling lips.
“I tried to burn it all to the ground,” she sobs.
“I couldn’t let him continue. He brought in two more criminally insane patients.
He was going to do it again. He even impregnated a nurse who worked with us.
” Her shoulders shake. “I couldn’t allow it. ”
She looks at me, broken. “The boy escaped. No one else did.”
I bite my lip, my nerves screaming. “Did anyone else know?”
She shakes her head. “No one believed me.”
Tears still cling to her lashes.
I try to connect the pieces. To make sense of it. But nothing comes together. I remain frozen where I stand, staring at her as the weight of the truth settles into my chest.
“Zayne is a good boy,” she says, shaking her head. “But a bad seed.” Tears slid down her cheeks. “And a bad seed will always end in rot.”
“Did Ezra Zane have a split personality?” I ask, watching her closely.
She shakes her head. “No. He was a psychopath.” Her voice is flat. “He hurt women because his own mother abused him. He hunted women who looked exactly like her.”
My heart starts to race.
I rise and head toward the bedroom, my pace quickening. The photographs on the bed blur as I gather them and return to the table, spreading them out before her.
The women Zayne Mercer killed didn’t look identical. Some had similarities, but there was no clear pattern. That is what makes him dangerous.
“Do any of these women resemble Ezra Zane’s victims?” I ask, my pulse pounding in my ears.
She studies the photos. One hand covers her mouth while the other sifts through the images. Slowly, she selects five and places them side by side.
My stomach drops.
All of them are blonde. Between twenty-five and thirty-five. Women in positions of power: teachers, nurses, lawyers.
The same as me.
If it was not real before, it is now. He is targeting me. I am next.
But something else catches my attention.
The photograph of a young boy still rests in her hand.
Rourke said that was the doctor’s son, the one who left for the UK with his mother after the divorce. If the boy raised in the institute was Zayne, then who was the child in that picture?
“Why did he name it Project Gemini, Mabel?” I ask.
She exhales. “The doctor always took two cells, in case one didn’t work.”
I try to steady my voice, but it comes out thin. “Could it be that there were twins?”
She shakes her head. “No. One boy died at birth. It drove his wife insane. That’s why they divorced in 1990.”
“Oh,” I say, nodding, forcing myself to breathe.
But I know the truth.
That boy didn’t die.
Zayne Mercer has a brother. A twin. And he is not acting alone.
I smile faintly, gathering the photos and sliding them away from her.
“Of course,” I say.
Everything fits now.
I stand and reach for a cup as I move toward the kitchen.
“I’ll get you a blanket,” I say. “You can stay the night.”
But she doesn’t respond.
The silence feels wrong.
I turn, and something slams into the side of my head. Pain explodes behind my eyes. I grab the edge of the counter as the room spins. Daisy’s barking cuts through the buzzing in my ears.
My vision blurs. Darkness creeps in at the edges.
I see her standing beside me.
“You look just like her,” she says.
And then everything goes black.