The fence that marked the border of Renaud’s estate came into view, tipped with elegant spear points and bearing the requisite lightning bolt symbols at intervals—the warning he gave to ensure everyone would know his home was not to be trifled with.  The car stopped at his front gate, and the back window lowered beside him.  A camera pivoted, the facial recognition software identifying him with a chirrup.

“Welcome home, Mr. Renaud.”

The gleaming steel gates swung open to reveal his long, meticulously groomed drive, and he left his window down so he could enjoy the song of the birds gracing the varied topiaries as he passed.

His driver’s voice carried back to him.  “Did you enjoy your time with the children, Mr. Mayor, sir?”

A smile tilted his lips.  Ever since the birth of his own son, he’d made it a priority to get the Underclass children ice cream once a week.  “It’s a privilege to serve.”

His eyes caught a smear of red and blue on his khaki pants and polo shirt, likely from when one of the children had hugged him.  Distantly, he knew his younger self would have railed against such an oversight, a blemish that could have easily been recorded in a photo op.  But being a father had changed him.

The car slowing brought his gaze to his beautiful home.  It was lined with marble pillars, offsetting the oak front doors with their gleaming brass inlay.  The three-story edifice was perfectly symmetrical, arched windows marching from the midline in perfect harmony.

Renaud thanked his driver, feet landing on the walkway made of tile he’d flown in from Spain as a surprise for his wife. Allowing himself the momentary indulgence, he paused to reminisce about the day he and Helena had settled upon the elegant simplicity of clean, country living as their shared future.  On moving day, they’d stood in that very spot, fingers intertwined on her swollen belly, anticipating their firstborn’s idyllic childhood in their new home.

He ascended the steps, another camera chirruping with recognition before the double doors swung open.  “Welcome home, Mr. Renaud.”

The vestibule opened to the grand staircase, chandelier hardly needing to add light to the bright day.  The door was barely closed behind him before another chirp came from the house’s computer.  “Inconsistency found in entry records.  Renaud, Duane, arrived home twice within one hour, without departing.  Recommend commencing internal diagnostic protocol immediately.”

Renaud had barely registered the odd alert before he gasped at the sight of a man lurking in the shadows of the staircase.  How could anyone have gotten past his security?  He was about to call for the police when the man stepped into the light and the mayor went stone cold.

Brown hair was down around his shoulders and matted in places. Sweat beaded on his brow, and he wore clothes that barely qualified as rags. Yet, everything about the new man was familiar and it was clear he was—somehow, defying reason—a warped mirror of Renaud, himself.

Familiar blue eyes pleaded with him, clenched hand offering a paper.  “I saw this and I…”

At the sound of his own voice issuing from the other man’s chapped lips, Renaud found himself unable to respond. His gaze was drawn to the man’s outstretched hand; it was one of Renaud’s campaign posters for Senator, his smiling face framed attractively with his slogan, Vote Renaud for Real Change.

“I saw my—your face and I thought…” The man’s words were as shaky as his hand, his forlorn face pleading.  “I thought maybe you could help me.” 

The man’s condition was far too grotesque to be a practical joke.  He made no attempt to attack, had no weapon, so why was he here?

His tattered doppelgänger began to teeter.  Reacting without thought, Renaud grabbed his arm to steady him, but recoiled at the smell of dried urine.  As he clutched at the man’s forearm, layers of livid tissue sloughed off, and there was barely enough wasted muscle for his hand to gain purchase.

The stranger collapsed to his knees, panting.  “You have to… help me.”

Renaud settled on his own knees, trying to reconcile what was happening.  Clearly this man had been hurt. but by whom?  “Who are you?”

His head lifted and mouth gaped, revealing the few rotted teeth that remained.  “I think that I’m your… clone.”

Renaud sat back on his heels, letting out a shaky breath.  He was mayor of his city, hoping to take on higher roles after this election.  Since he’d started in politics he had been heavily involved in medical advancements, making them a central part of his campaign.  He actually knew more about cloning than the average person.  He had supported the Renier Project early in his career, which utilised cloning of an individual’s cells in order to create transplant organs.  It had saved countless lives.  Even if the technology existed to clone an individual whole cloth, it was absolutely illegal. So how had a clone of himself been created and grown to this age, without his knowledge? 

“Where did you come from?”

“I’m not sure. I escaped; people were hurting me. Please… will you help me?”

Renaud snapped back to the present moment. Was it wise to help this man, who he hardly knew? Yet, it would be deeply problematic to let the man be discovered by the public.  “What’s your name?”

“Duane.” He looked down, almost apologetically. “Same as yours.”

He paused, but helped the man to his feet. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Then we’ll try to figure out what’s happened. The guest bedroom is this way; it has an ensuite bathroom.”

As they navigated the hall, he pushed aside his fears and worries about how the man existed and whether this could spell ruin for his family.  He focused instead on what the man would need. Clothes, for starters, and then he’d surely be hungry. But first things first. He opened the door to the lavish bedroom, motioning to the bathroom. “You should find everything you’ll need. I’ll bring you something to wear and leave it on the bed.”

The man was clearly emotional, his words of gratitude muffled by half choked back tears. Renaud gave a reassuring smile as he closed the door.

As his fingers tightened on the doorknob he felt sloughed off skin, still stuck to his hand. He gagged at the sensation, a shiver running through his body at the memory of the man’s withered flesh.  Was this real?  He let out a shaky breath, turning hurriedly for the kitchen. Was this actually happening? Was that man truly a clone? His DNA stolen, somehow?

Scrubbing his hands beneath the high vaulting faucet over his fireclay sink, he found he couldn’t wash away the sense of dread. The man had seemed genuine enough. But how could this possibly be? What was Renaud missing?

Drying his hands, his eyes unfocused thoughtfully.

If the man were telling the truth, it was one catastrophe. But if he were lying and trying to use Renaud, it was another. Caution was prudent.

Slipping his cell phone into his hand, he scrolled through his options.  If he was being honest with himself though, there was only one person with a long enough history for Renaud to trust in this moment.  They had both helped one another rise to their respective positions, after all.  He pulled up the private, direct line for the chief of police. It rang only once, before the familiar commanding voice broke through. “Mr. Mayor. To what do I owe the honour?”

“Charles. I have a situation.” He checked the hallway, lowering his voice. “I need your discretion.”

“Of course, Duane. What’s the matter?”

“An adult male showed up in my house today who… appears to be my genetic clone. If that’s true, based on his age…” At first glance the man had seemed older than Renaud but upon reflection, he was likely younger than himself and artificially withered.  “My best guess is my DNA was used to create him twenty-something years ago.”

The pause allowed Renaud’s words to register in his own ears. The utter unbelievability of them struck him. Had he been out of his mind to call the chief of police?

Charles gave a grunt. “Duane, that’s one hell of a story.”

Renaud was drawing breath to defend himself when Charles continued. “But you aren’t one for theatrics, so let’s start with gathering facts. I’ll bring a doctor friend of mine that I can trust. He can find out if this person really is your clone and we can go from there.”

Renaud let out a breath of relief. “The man has injuries as well.”

“He’s in your house? Do you feel safe?”

At the question, Renaud hesitated.

“Enough said.” The authority and finality in his tone conveyed why he had risen to chief. “I’ll come over as well, get a statement. That way we have a paperwork trail if we need it later. But I’ll keep it off the books for now.”

Renaud knew he was in good hands. “I leave it to you.”

*******

Renaud leaned against the doorframe, the tension in his shoulders making his arms cross just a hint too tightly across his body.

The doctor’s white shirt stood in stark contrast to his dark skin, his eyes on the task of filling the last vial of blood from Renaud’s doppelgänger.  “The fluids and antibiotics I gave you should help, but I’d like you to continue to drink something with electrolytes for the next few days.”

The man was seated bolt upright on the bed, staring at the floor, as he had been since the moment the doctor had arrived. His agreement was barely audible; almost like a child who was afraid of being scolded. 

Charles cleared his throat from his place, stationed at the end of the bed. He was letting the doctor do his work, but Renaud knew the man well enough to recognize he was using the distraction of the doctor to aid in his investigation. “So you escaped from a laboratory this morning.” He flipped a page of his small notebook, a bushy gray eyebrow rising. “Do you remember anything about the location?”

The Duane on the bed shook his head rapidly. “No. Once I saw the door to the outside was open, I just started running…”

Charles nodded.  “Remember anything you passed as you were running? Memorable people? Sights? Smells?”

The last word had the man shifting. Renaud straightened.  “What is it?”

The man’s eyes—Renaud’s own haunted eyes—cautiously met his. “There was this awful, stomach-turning smell.”

“A sharp, metallic smell? Char, with a hint of…” He struggled to describe it. “Blurry smokiness?”

Duane gave a surprised nod.

His eyes snapped to the chief of police.  “The foundry.”

“All right.”  Charles motioned with his head, and Renaud followed him into the hallway.  He lowered his voice.  “He does bear an uncanny likeness to you.  But he still broke into your house.  Do you want me to take him in?”

“No, he seems…” Renaud shook his head, his insides fluttering at the prospect.  “Innocent.”  Too innocent, perhaps.  But since when was that a crime?

Charles gave a nod.  “And you’d better keep him a secret here, until we know more.”

Their eyes held, both sharing without saying how that was now of the utmost importance.

The Chief began tapping on his phone, feet carrying him efficiently to the door. “I’ll keep you posted.”

Back inside the room, the doctor finished filling the last vial of blood, pressing folded gauze onto Duane’s arm as he withdrew the needle. As the doctor began cleaning up, Renaud couldn’t help but wonder which vial would be used to do the DNA test.

The doctor gave basic instructions for Duane’s care that Renaud only half listened to—he was simply relieved that nothing sounded contagious. He thanked the doctor automatically, and when they were left alone, Duane finally relaxed his posture.

Renaud pushed away from the wall, motioning to the sitting area on the other side of the room. “I hope the food hasn’t gotten too cold.”

As the man sat at the chair behind the plate of food, he began eating with a voraciousness that was unsettling—he hardly seemed to even be chewing, shivering and swallowing loudly. 

Duane’s eyes caught his, and he immediately snapped his gaze down.  “Thank you for all this.”

Renaud sat back in his chair, crossing his ankle on his knee to try to hide his discomfort. “It’s all right. Eat.”

The man slowed his pace but still hardly seemed to be chewing—when it occurred to Renaud that by the disrepair of the man’s teeth, he might not even be able to chew. He swallowed down a hint of bile, glancing off. 

When the man had finished, Renaud motioned to the door. “Would you like some whisky?”

“No. It’s too strong.”

“Oh, it’s my favourite. I just assumed…” He frowned, wondering why it felt strange to think that his clone might not like the same things. 

In the silence, Duane cradled a glass of water as if it were a miraculous gift.

Renaud felt sick to his stomach. “I wanted to say I’m sorry. Your story about growing up in that awful place, being tested on…” Their eyes caught. “How did you manage?”

“Honestly?” Duane stared down into his glass. “They let me draw. I think it was just another experiment, but I never cared so long as I had paper and pencil.”

Renaud recalled how he himself had doodled as a child; a juvenile way to self-soothe. “I’ll get you a notebook.”

“Thank you.” His eyes went distant as he shrugged. “So I suppose it was that. And daydreaming about family.”

“Family?”

Childlike innocence crept onto his lips. “At night, they’d let us watch television to keep us tranquil. My favourite is I Love Lucy.” His eyes flitted to Renaud’s with the first hint of excitement. “Do you have a family?”

As if bidden by his words, the front door opening echoed down the hall, along with the familiar sound of the house computer. “Welcome home, Mrs. Renaud and Brayden.”

He shot to his feet. They were early. “Yes, a wife and son.” 

Duane gasped with joy, smiling brightly. “How old is he?

“Almost seven.” His insides tightened nervously. If his mirror was staying, he needed an excuse to tell his family.  He rushed into the hallway, calling out.  “I’m in the guest room. We have a visitor.”

The sound of Brayden barreling around the corner preceded his arrival. “Daddy!” The boy was a perfect mixture of himself and his wife. His hair was dark and buoyant like his mothers, his skin holding her warmth and his nose and jaw looking just like Renaud’s. Brayden launched himself at Renaud, who couldn’t help but chuckle as he snatched up his child. He ran his fingers through Brayden’s hair. “How was tennis practice?”

But Brayden’s eyes were wide, staring over Renaud’s shoulder.

He pivoted, finding Duane standing there, smiling warmly. “Hello, little one.” He gave an awkward wave that, oddly, had Brayden giggling.

Helena took in an audible breath, her clicking heels stopping at his side.  Renaud saw the confusion on her face that she deftly hid behind social graces.  “Darling! Why didn’t you text me that we have company?” She clearly didn’t want an answer, as she went straight to Duane and took his hand. Her dress was a dark green that complimented her brown skin, hair drawn back at the nape of her neck, her whole aura oozing charm. “So lovely to meet you. I’m Helena. This is our son, Brayden. Say hello, Brayden.”

Renaud knew he should put his son down for introductions, but kept a firm grip on him. His own smile was tighter than he wanted. “This is my long-lost…” He caught Duane’s eyes, briefly, meaningfully. “Cousin. His name is also Duane.”

A more genuine smile warmed her eyes.  “That explains the resemblance.  This is wonderful! You have so little family. What an absolute blessing.” Helena had all her charisma engaged, as she did whenever meeting someone new—it was one of the reasons he’d married her, after all. She was a spectacular politician’s spouse. 

She swatted Renaud’s arm. “Darling, are these your old clothes on him? They’re positively swimming on your cousin! Let me get your measurements, dear, and I’ll send for some clothes that will fit you better.”

He caught his wife’s gaze and could tell she believed mere hard times had befallen this new “cousin.” She immediately began to fuss over the man and led him down the hall to give him a tour of the house. Renaud was left to sit with the discomfort at misleading his wife as she focused on making the man feel welcome while strategically avoiding any topics of what had brought the hard times about.

All while leaving Renaud’s lips to press tightly as he held his son close.

*******

“It’s nice you’ve been working from home this week.” His wife’s voice echoed from the kitchen. “Brayden is really enjoying it.”

Renaud hadn’t been about to leave his family home alone with some man he didn’t know and didn’t trust.  He’d leveraged all his contacts in the medical industry, cautiously, to get any information about where the man could have come from.  Finding no leads, he’d focused on finding all the ways he and his mirror were different.  

Brayden’s scream made him jump to his feet, only to hear it devolve into squeals of joy. Beyond the picture window in the dining room, Duane and Brayden were outside playing games—again.

Renaud’s jaw hurt from clenching.

The man seemed perfectly content to play endless games with Brayden, eschewing any of the pastimes that Renaud enjoyed.  He’d even gotten Renaud’s son into I Love Lucy, despite numerous attempts of Renaud to watch something less inane.

His gaze fell to his pile of campaign posters.

Considering the election, it felt like suspicious timing for Duane to appear. Yet, the man was so immature he was hardly a threat to Renaud.

So, why was he here?

Helena came through the archway from the kitchen, a plate of cookies in hand. When she caught sight of him on his feet she lifted a quizzical brow, her dark brown eyes holding an array of questions and her lips tilting to match. Her gaze shifted to the window before casually returning to him. The plate was eventually set beside his work laptop. “Your cousin is so good with Brayden. They’ve really bonded.”

He forced himself back into his chair but was unable to suppress the petulant sigh. “Yes. Brayden seems to really like him.”

His leg bounced in agitation as he scrolled through his email on his laptop. He tried to stop himself, but his cursor was drawn to open the file without control over his movements.

Yet again, the genetic testing results displayed a 100% DNA match.

How was it possible that the man truly was his clone? That was supposed to be science fiction, while he was somehow face-to-identical-face with science fact.

Helena stood at the end of the table, leaning her hands on the back of the chair. She eyed him in silence. It took a long moment before he sighed again. “What?”

“No one can replace you as his father, you know. You’re one of a kind.”

A hot lance of fear burned through him. Was that even true, anymore?

Helena began tidying the table, stacking his note cards and straightening his pens.  “The campaign is really going well, isn’t it? Soon you’ll be a Senator.” 

“It’s hard to believe, honestly. And to think people are already talking about my being a presidential candidate down the line.”

“Of course; success is in your genes.” 

He flinched at the words, eyes snapping to see if she’d noticed. But his wife was gazing distractedly out the window.  “It’s truly remarkable; he’s the spitting image of you.” She glanced over her shoulder at him with a hint of playfulness. “Well, from before you doubled down on having a fatherly form.” She prodded his side in a way she had hundreds of times before, but to Renaud, it was akin to a knife in his gut.

Looking out at his mirror image, he hated to admit how good the man looked. Now that Duane had shaved his face, been put into right-sized clothes, and his matted hair returned to civilization with a haircut, so long as he didn’t show his horrid teeth, he was a thinner version of Renaud than he’d ever been able to attain, even in his youth.

As if reading his mind, Helena motioned to the window. “I was able to get Dr. Robbins to make a house call about his teeth. He has an appointment tomorrow morning at eight-thirty. You’ll be free, won’t you?”

“Of course.” Renaud was going to grind his own teeth down to nubs, at this rate.

Left alone, he attempted to return to work, but the sound of Brayden laughing brought his eyes off his screen. Duane and his son were laughing and rollicking in the grass, Brayden tackling the older man. “I wish things could stay like this forever!” 

And Duane gave an enigmatic smile, his identity hidden behind his tightly closed lips. “Maybe they can.”

Renaud shot to his feet, charging down the hall. Fear gnawed at his insides like rats, trying to escape, yet he couldn’t escape it. He yanked out his phone, pulling up the police chief’s number distractedly. There was no way this twin, this dark, twisted doppelgänger, could possibly be the sweet innocent that he presented himself as. There was something nefarious beneath the surface. Renaud just knew it.

“Duane, still nothing new since you called me this morning.”

“Why can’t we find anything about this man?  He can’t be this innocent!” Frustration overwhelmed Renaud and he tossed open the door to the man’s guest room. He found himself hoping to find drugs, needles, gang symbols—anything that would give credit to his unease.

Yet, the room was neat and tidy, looking perfectly—crushingly—ordinary.

Charles’ voice was kind. “Have you considered there’s nothing bad to be uncovered?” 

Shame burned his throat like liquid fire. Was he so distrustful of a man who had come to him, broken and alone? Simply because there was no easy explanation for their shared DNA?  The man hadn’t asked to be made that way, after all.  The sharing of genetic material had happened to him as much as it had happened to Renaud.

Why was he blaming another victim in what was clearly someone else’s scheme?

Renaud heard someone call for the Chief’s attention, and Charles gave a weighty sigh. “I need to go. You have my word I’ll call if anything comes up.”

“Of course.  Thank you for your time.” He let out a long breath, sitting down on the edge of the bed as he hung up, tossing the phone onto the bed beside him. His state of constant hyper-vigilance was finally catching up to him, and he rested his forearms on his legs, leaning forward.

He was being ridiculous. He gave a sad chuckle. He’d probably read one too many of those old British short horror stories that had evil twins appearing and trying to usurp the place of their match. Distrusting Duane for his innocence and, honestly, civility in the face of such a trying situation was absurd. Renaud owed the man an apology.

Running his fingers through his hair, he slumped forward, shaking his head.  What a foolish man he’d been.

He was about to stand when bright blue interrupting the white sheets caught his eyes. Something was shoved between the mattress and box spring. He shifted to find the corner of a blue notebook—it was the art journal Renaud had procured for him early in his stay. He realised now, it hadn’t made an appearance since. So why was it hidden away, beneath the mattress?

Flipping aside the cover, the crumpled campaign poster the man had clutched on his arrival nearly fell to the floor. Behind it on the first page was a pencil drawing showcasing an uncanny likeness of the poster—the next page held another, then another, then another…

Pages and pages of Renaud’s face.

Flipping the pages more hurriedly, he sucked in a breath of fear.

It was Brayden, smiling.

There were dozens of images of his son.

And then Helena in the kitchen, in the library, beside a window…

Renaud’s throat was dry as his quivering hand refused to turn the next page.

When he finally did, he wished he hadn’t.

Himself, his child, and his wife were together, as if posing for a portrait, underneath the banner The Perfect Family.

Renaud’s eyes moved over the tight smile on his own face. But was it his face… 

Or the face of the man drawing it?

He floundered to find his phone, opening his recent calls for Charles’ number. Getting to his feet as it began to ring, he shoved the cursed notebook back under the bed. Renaud couldn’t let Duane know he was on to him.

“You’ve reached the voicemail of—”

He hung up in frustration, staring at his phone. What should he do?

Voices echoed from deeper in the house. Duane and Brayden had come inside—

Brayden.

The hand-drawn family portrait haunted him in all of its uncanny, perverse perfection. Everything inside him went cold with fear.

The man was trying to steal his family.

He’d known something was wrong from the minute the man arrived–known something was off. 

His lips pressed together in determination. Renaud would protect his family.

His shaking hand punched in the numbers without thought.

“This is emergency services. Please state your name and the nature of your emergency.”

Renaud glanced down the hallway cautiously, keeping his voice a low whisper. “Duane Renaud. There’s an intruder in my house.”

“I have your GPS location marked and am sending a car immediately, Mr. Mayor. Where is the intruder and what do they look like?”

“White male who looks in his forties or fifties, dark hair, very thin. He’s wearing jeans and a long-sleeved beige polo.” And Renaud hated that it sounded like he was identifying himself. “He’s pretending to be one of my relatives, but I believe he’s here to—” Steal Renaud’s family? His identity, his life? “Commit fraud.” He glanced in the hallway again. “The Chief of Police is aware of the situation.”

“Of course, sir. I’ll let the officers know. Can you—”

“Dad?  Can you come here?”

Renaud’s pulse skyrocketed. Brayden was calling for him.

“I’ll be right there!”

“Sir? Is everything all right?”

“I need to go.”

“Please stay on the line with me until the officers arri—”

He hung up, slipping the phone into his pocket as he hurried into the hallway.

Trying not to let his body language betray him, he made his way into the dining room. Duane and Brayden were at the table, whispering conspiratorially as they huddled together. When Renaud came close enough, he saw that one of the cookies Helena had brought him was in Duane’s hand.

Renaud’s own fingers curled into fists.

The pair looked up, Brayden smiling brightly. “Look! Uncle Duane is an artist.”

Apparently, they had taken a couple of Renaud’s campaign posters from the pile. While the childish scrawling on one made it clear it had been Brayden’s work, the other had been modified by a far more expert hand. There was a new logo in the corner now, with some small arrows with ideas for modifications of the layout. Duane gave a sheepish smile. “I just thought since you’ve done so much for advancing medical science, it might be nice to highlight that in your campaign.”

Renaud saw that the logo included the staff of Aesculapius. It was a clever move for a number of reasons, but he immediately disliked it, considering the source. 

His phone began ringing and showed the call was from the chief of police. Renaud declined and turned to his twin. “Duane, could you come with me? I’ll be right back, Brayden, just keep working for a few minutes.”

Duane followed with such trusting innocence, Renaud was actually amazed at how well-crafted his facade was. He engaged the man in small talk about his logo as they walked to the front foyer, not listening to him so much as he was intent upon letting minutes tick by. An alert from his watch tapped his wrist.

Security Front Gate: Police Bypass Code Used

His nerves were so on end, that he flinched when his wife called his name.

“Here—”

“I’m—”

He and his twin caught eyes, having both answered at the same time. Duane gave an apologetic smile. “That was silly of me. Of course she was calling for you.”

Renaud struggled to maintain his breathing until his wife came into the room.

But she went straight to Duane, smiling warmly. “There you are! I just wanted to remind you that you have a dental appointment tomorrow morning.”

The man’s gaze quickly shot to the ground. “Thank you so much for your kindness.”

It took everything in Renaud not to throw the man out the front door before the chirrup of the doorbell gratefully came.

When he opened the door, he expected the pair of officers to immediately descend on his dopplegänger, handcuffing him and pulling him out, kicking and screaming.

“Mr. Mayor, we received a call of an intruder—” Instead, the officers looked between Duane and Renaud in confusion.

Helena sucked in a breath. “What’s the meaning of this?”

Renaud fully expected the man to run. Yet, Duane suddenly held Renaud’s gaze with a knowing, crushing sadness that chilled Renaud to his soul. Duane lowered his head in resignation.

In the archway, the chief of police appeared, breathless as he took in the scene.

Renaud felt frozen as the officers handcuffed Duane and told him his rights. The man though, simply turned to Helena.  “There’s a present for you and your son under my mattress. It’s some sketches I did of you all, to thank you for taking care of me.”

Renaud felt his insides burn with guilt. He’d been completely wrong, hadn’t he? 

“Wait! Let him go.” 

The chief though, moved between. “Hold on. I need a moment with the mayor.”

Charles grabbed Renaud’s arm with a vice-like grip, pulling him off to the side of the room. Renaud was about to ask what was going on when the man’s nervous gaze silenced him. “Remember when I got pulled away when we were talking? It was about this.”

Renaud frowned.  “What is it?”

“I’ve been trying to find the lab, but lawyers found me instead.”  Charles’ gaze hardened, holding his meaningfully.  “The lab—the clones—it’s part of an initiative you spearheaded.”

Renaud blinked.  “What?”

“The Reinier Project. Ring a bell?”

An icy chill of panic coursed through him.  That initiative was why he was renowned as advancing medical science–it ensured organs for people who might otherwise not receive them, had saved thousands, if not millions, of lives.  There had been intense negotiations that had ultimately secured him the political funding he’d needed to rise out of anonymity and, eventually, into the position he now held. The nuances of the deal though, surely hadn’t included cloning himself! “It’s an initiative focused on medical advancement—”

“Through the use of clones as human test subjects.” Charles let out a disbelieving breath. “Icing on the cake? To ensure secrecy, and to bypass the laws it would otherwise violate, the only DNA being used for testing is yours.”

“But that’s where all the advances came from?” The chief nodded and Renaud felt as if all the air were forced out of his lungs.  “How many clones of me are there?”

“Dozens.” Charles held his gaze, lowering his voice. “Duane, we are getting into some serious shit here. If you don’t send him back, you’re going to be in a world of legal trouble. You signed away your rights and that man is technically just genetic material—like stem cells.”

The silence was painful.

“What’s happening to Uncle Duane?” Brayden was being held back by his mother.  “Father, what’s going on?”

Renaud took in the foyer. His wife and son waited to his left. To his right, his mirror image was handcuffed between two uniformed police officers. Charles was at his side, and the heaviness of the news settled over it all.

He’d met his twin in that very room, seen his dilapidated body—witnessed the aftermath of the human testing that apparently he himself had sanctioned, first hand.

“You’re on track for a senate seat and I know you’re destined for the presidency after that.” The chief’s voice took on a hard note. “Do you realise what this could do to you, if it gets out?”

His gaze fell to Brayden, to the campaign posters he clutched to his chest. Renaud saw the hint of the logo his other had made, highlighting his “advances” in medicine.

His career, his family, his very life—had all been paid for out of his mirror’s skin.

And if it was to be believed, dozens more, like him.

Charles’ gaze was unwavering. “What do you want me to do with him?”

Renaud took in Helena and Brayden, at how they were looking at him with horror and confusion, but also hope and trust. He took care of them; he provided for them.

The chief spoke for his ears alone. “If he doesn’t go back, you’ll be lucky if you end up in jail and don’t end up joining him.”

A shiver felt as if it ran down to Renaud’s soul, the very fabric of his being shaking as he caught Duane’s gaze. “Take him.”

And the innocence in Duane’s eyes that had been so haunting, was all the more terrible to see shattered.

Charles nodded, the two uniformed officers leading his mirror away.

In the silence, no one even seemed to breathe until Helena spoke. “What did Charles say to you?”

Her eyes met his. Trustingly.

“He escaped from an institution…” Renaud paused. “And it’s for our family’s safety that he go back.” It wasn’t exactly a lie.

“He’s such a sweet man…” She shook her head, giving a huff.  “This isn’t right.” He took in a breath, but she spoke over him. “I’m going to talk to Charles. There has to be some sort of mistake.”

Her determined footsteps echoed out the door.

Something in the recesses of Renaud’s spirit felt as if it shrivelled up, at a depth that he couldn’t understand.  He let out a shaking breath; his insides now hosting a new space filled with disgust and regret.

He’d forgotten about his son until there was the rustle of papers falling. Both of the campaign posters that Brayden and Duane had modified fell from the boy’s innocent fingers. And just as quietly, tears dropped from Brayden’s cheeks to join them on the floor.

Renaud took a step forward. “Brayden…”

But the boy bolted, leaving Renaud’s eyes to fall to the floor—

Onto the sight of his own face looking up at him, smothered beneath the sole of his pristine shoe.