text: Don't you have anything better to do? his brother asked. Sam Roebuck smiled. Not at the moment, he thought back. But you seem rather busy at the moment. Not everyone can swill whiskey and idly write all day, his twin brother, Liam Roebuck, thought as he entered the warehouse. Triple homicides don't solve themselves. And best sellers that pay for the lake house don't write themselves, either, Sam retorted. Now shut up and do your job. Liam glanced at a nearby window and gave his reflection the middle finger. Sam grinned wider. He and his brother had shared this connection all their lives; all one brother had to do was close his eyes, reach out to the other, and he would see from his brother's perspective--both literally and figuratively. Liam and Sam had used this connection to their benefit on numerous occasions--whether it be stealing the neighbor's Halloween candy when they were kids, or stealing their parent's vodka when they were slightly larger kids--but none had proved more fruitful than their current arrangement. Liam ventured out into the world as a detective for the Boston Police Department, and Sam used those experiences for the basis of his thrillers. Of course, Sam always served up these stories with an extra dollop of melodrama on top--a habit that annoyed Liam as much as it filled his publishers with glee. "Not much to see here, sir," a plain-clothes police officer told Liam as he passed into the warehouse. He was a short man with beady eyes and a moss of red stubble across his jaw. "We've got three in the back office. There are some footprints around the bed, a few smudges by the window, and not much else." "No fingerprints?" Liam asked. "None that don't belong to the victims." That's a shame, Sam thought. This one might actually be interesting. Apologies if most of my life is too boring for you, Liam thought as he followed the police officer into the back room. Does this at least pique your interest? In fact, it did. The bodies were arranged in a row, arm to arm, across a dirty mattress. They wore heavy winter jackets and hats and gloves. Scarves were laid over their faces, almost ceremonially. If there were any signs of trauma, Sam couldn't spot them--but the bodies weren't moving. These people were certainly dead, there was no doubting that. "Who called it in?" Liam asked as he pulled on his gloves. "Not sure, sir," said the plain-clothes officer as he scratched at the stubble on his chin. "We got an anonymous tip. Came from a pay phone, believe it or not." "Pay phone," Liam muttered as he made a circle of the room. "I'm surprised there are any left in the city." "There aren't, which makes life a bit easier. We tracked down the phone pretty quickly, but we're stilling running through nearby security camera footage to see if we can make an ID." The officer shrugged. "It's a strange city." And it gets stranger every day, Sam thought. He opened his eyes--transporting himself back to his office--and made a quick note about pay phones on a yellow legal pad in front of him. Going from his brother's mind and back to his own could be a little jarring, especially when he swapped out dank, dim warehouses for his broad mahogany desk in his too-expensive office. Sam again felt grateful that he was the one with the literary gene, and closed his eyes. "... will the coroner get here?" Liam was in a different position in the room now, standing near the window. "Soon," said the officer. "I guess there's an accident off route 93 that's got everything backed up." "Figures," Liam muttered as he crouched by the bodies. It wasn't uncommon for a detective to arrive at a murder scene before the coroner or forensics, but Liam didn't like it. He preferred to bounce his ideas off people--a particularly Holmesian trait, Sam observed--and, lacking anyone else, he turned to his brother. See anything of interest up there? Sam didn't. The bodies were still and rigid; no doubt rigor mortis had set in, meaning they had passed away at least four hours ago. Maybe longer. Clothes look cheap, Sam commented. Cheap, but clean. Maybe even new. Almost looks like they decked themselves out at the dollar store before coming out here to die. "Why would they do that?" Liam muttered. "Do what?" The plain-clothes police officer knelt beside Liam. A little too close for comfort, in Sam's opinion. "These clothes..." Liam shook his head. "Has anyone in the neighborhood reported anything?" "Neighborhood?" He chuckled. "Ain't much of a neighborhood to speak of, sir." Liam rubbed his chin. "Did the anonymous caller say that this was a murder?" The officer shrugged. "I believe so, yes." "That's odd," Liam said. "I can't see any gunshots, stab marks, signs of strangulation..." Liam flicked on his flashlight. There wasn't much he could see, like the police officer had noted, but he could see glimpses of skin between the scarves and the jackets--and what he could see was unnaturally white. Do you think the killer kidnapped these people? Sam thought. Maybe he murdered them and he called it in himself. Could be, Liam thought. But he could tell that his brother's mind was moving along a different track. And he was getting nervous. What's wrong? Sam thought. Liam didn't answer him. He moved around the bed and positioned himself by one of the bodies. " Limbs are stiff," he said as he pressed his fingers into one of their arms. The office stood and leaned over Liam. "Friggin hell," he muttered. "That's bizarre." Liam lifted the arm. It rose easily--too easily, like it weighed almost nothing. Liam, Sam thought. I really don't like this. His brother ignored him. Liam was the brave one--another gene that went to one brother and not the other. Sam knew that Liam felt fear, panic, uncertainty, all those things, but he had a leash on each of them; Liam never allowed them to run wild, or bark too loudly. Sam, watching as his brother reached for the scarf, realized that he didn't have a tenth of that control. He was afraid. Really afraid. Under the scarf was an empty, blank face. No mouth, no eyes, no ears. Just Styrofoam-smoothness, carved and molded into a vaguely human face. You need to get out of here, Sam thought. He could feel his palms sweating, miles away in his comfy, well-heated office. Liam pulled the scarf from the next body--and revealed another mannequin. He was reaching for the third when the blow fell. Something hit Liam on the back of the head--and his brother collapsed. "Gotcha," the officer muttered. He flipped Liam over--the small bat that was hidden under his coat now in his hand--and began to drag him by his heels. Liam! Sam thought. LIAM WAKE UP!!! But his brother didn't respond. This had happened before--back when Sam would pass out drunk, Liam would take a peak in his head to make sure he wasn't lying on his back so he wouldn't choke on his own vomit--but it was always a disconcerting experience. Sam left alone and cold inside his unconscious brother's mind. His eyes rolled, but Sam's thoughts weren't as muddled by pain and disorientation. He could watch what was happening--or, at least, he could try his best. And that was enough for him to recognize the face of the officer. Dennis Reily. He looked different without his beard; in fact, the beard had once been his defining feature--long and thick and red, in stark contrast to his pale face and thin blond hair. Dennis had been in and out of BPD holding cells all his life--more than once, at Liam's hands. He must be out on parole. They both thought Dennis had been full of it when he swore to get even with Liam, after his arrest on drug trafficking charges. Liam had laughed it off, and Sam had laughed with him, not willing to betray the nervousness he felt in his gut. But then days passed, uneventful and bloody-revenge-free. Days became months, then months became years, and Dennis Reily slowly became less than a bad memory; they never thought about him at all. Now we'll never be able to forget. Dennis dragged his brother off the mattress and out of the room when Sam forced his eyes open. He wasn't doing any good here--sitting in his plush office while his brother was in the hands of... He slapped himself. No point panicking now. Fortunately he had been in his brother's head when he got the call--a call that, in retrospect, was extremely suspicious. Just got a call from a lieutenant on the south side, Liam had said, popping into Sam's head while he was staring at his blank legal pad. I see the writing is going well. Piss off, Sam had said, writing an expletive on the notepad. What have you got? It sounded inviting enough--but the drive over had proved otherwise. Liam and Sam had gotten into a spat over the lake house; Liam wanted to take his wife and children up next weekend, but Sam had already made firm and indelible plans to drink himself into a stupor. They had gotten into a fight and Sam left his brother alone... until he spent a few more minutes alone with that yellow legal pad, and then he was back in his twin's mind just as he walked into the warehouse. South side, Sam thought as he jammed the key into the ignition of his old BMW. How many abandoned warehouses could there be on the south side? Of course his experience in Boston's south side has been limited to whatever his Uber driver drove past after he'd been kicked out of one brewery or another. Driving in Boston was a nightmare. He'd never get there in time. Just as he got on route 93, he closed his eyes--just for a moment. Dennis was dragging Liam up a flight of stairs. He could feel Liam's head bouncing off the wooden steps. Sam opened his eyes with a gasp--and slammed on the brakes. The old BMW skidded to a halt mere inches from the car in front of him. I guess Dennis wasn't lying about an accident on 93. Or, maybe he had been. Saying there was an accident on 93 was like saying the sun was shining; half the time, that was undoubtedly true. Sam pulled into the breakdown lane and slammed on the accelerator. The scene of the accident snapped past in an instance--followed by more than a few middle fingers. Why is everyone flipping me off today? Whatever, they could be as mad as they wanted. He only had to make it to the next exit, then he could snake his way through downtown to get to the docks, and from there he could follow his brother's footsteps to the warehouse. Sirens whirled to life behind him. The police officer pulled up close; the grill and swirling red and blue lights filled his rear-view mirror. "Of course ," Sam said through gritted teeth as he took the off ramp. At least he had backup when he got to the warehouse--assuming they weren't busy arresting him for one of the dozen traffic laws he had violated (including trying to lubricate a case of writer's block with a few shots of Dewar's before getting behind the wheel). He zipped through the south side, going off memory alone. The police blasted their sirens; he was vaguely aware that more than one had joined the fray. Sam's heart nearly burst when he spotted something familiar--his brother's sedan, parked in front of an old warehouse. He slammed on the brakes and cut the wheel hard. The police behind him obviously weren't ready for the maneuver and skidded past him. Sam pulled into the parking lot, beside his brother's car. Where are you? When he closed his eyes, he saw the sky. "Always thought you were better than me," Dennis muttered into Liam's ear. "Always thought you were a great, great man, eh? That's what always bothered me about you, pig." Liam's head rose. Dennis was lifting him. "Now you'll be nothing but a goddamn puddle. " Sam opened his eyes. He didn't need his connection with his twin to see what was happening now; Dennis, with Liam's body draped over his shoulder, was standing on the roof of the building. "How am I supposed to stop this?" Sam said. The words came as a surprise to him. What could he do, really? Anything? Dennis shifted. He planted his foot on the roof behind him. He's getting ready to throw him. A thought flashed into his mind. It might be stupid--truly, truly stupid--but it was the only thing he could think of. Sam threw his car in reverse and backed up. Dennis raised his brother, clearly struggling under the weight. Sam barely had time to put his car in drive before Liam started falling. Sam punched the accelerator and maneuvered the car as best he could. Liam's body fell with alarming speed--too fast, too goddamned fast! Sam positioned the car as best he could, but there was no telling if he was in the right spot, or if he had gone too far, or if-- And then the roof caved in. Liam slammed into Sam's car, breaking his fall, leaving an ugly, deep indent on the roof. Sam had to angle his head to get out. The police, who had pulled into the lot mere moments before, stared at him in shock. "I think the lunatic tossing people off buildings in the bigger priority, eh?" The offices, blinking away their shock, seemed to agree. They rushed into the abandoned warehouse moments later. Sam grabbed Liam's wrist. His brother was in bad shape; he'd need stitches and casts and a lot of painkillers (which, no doubt, he'd be an ass about sharing). But he had a pulse. And, to Sam's shock, he could feel Liam's presence in his mind. Yikes, Liam thought. I look bad. You've looked worse. Have I? After that weekend in Vegas, yeah. But not by much. A police officer checked Liam's vitals and radioed for an ambulance. Dennis Reily was taken from the building moments later. He met Sam's gaze--and his mouth dropped open. "I'm just a twin," Sam shouted. "But don't worry, the original model is just fine." Dennis was about to say something back when he was stuffed into the back of a squad car. The arresting officers weren't too careful about banging the suspect's head against the car door. I've had an idea, Sam thought. Why don't I come to the lake house with you and the family this weekend? I don't know. Martha really hates the whole "drunken stupor" act. "Then I guess I'll need to postpone," Sam said. "I can get drunk any weekend." Liam did his best to smile at his brother. And for once, the finger he raised to Sam wasn't the middle one. It was his thumb. Sam chuckled. "This is going to make one hell of a read." Liam groaned. Sorry, but I think I'll have to skip it.