Dead Ringers 1: Illusion Read Online Free PDF Page A

Beach, yet another thing to hold against her.
    “On spec,” Mom corrects. “That means the houses were built with no specific buyer in mind but the builder is pretty sure they’ll sell.”
    She deposits a pancake onto Suri’s plate like she’s Martha frigging Stewart. Anybody on the outside looking in would be fooled into thinking life was grand with the Greenes. Suri and Julian seem fine, though.
    Making a snap decision to get the hell out of there, I grab a cinnamon apple fruit bar from the pantry closet and head for the back door. “Later.”
    “Wait a minute, Jade.” My mom’s voice stops me, but I don’t turn around. “Today’s your day off, right? What are your plans?”
    For lack of another idea, I thought I’d go down to the strip, walk around and see if I can spot any wicked clowns. If I told her that, though, she’d probably offer to come along and help.
    “Why do you want to know?”
    “I was hoping you’d do me a favor.” She’s acting like we have a normal mother-daughter relationship where it’s possible I’ll say yes. “Julian’s having friends over to play video games. Can you keep an eye on them until I get home?”
    The favor, then, isn’t for her. It’s for Julian. Since she’s been back, Mom’s been real strict about having friends over without supervision. If I say no, she’ll tell Julian to uninvite them. My brother’s been through a lot, too. I can’t do that to him, no matter how much I want to defy her.
    “I’ll do it for Julian.” I reverse directions, stepping over the photo on the hallway carpet and retreating to my bedroom. I eat my fruit bar in my bedroom behind a closed door that doesn’t block the delicious smell of the pancakes.
    Julian’s friends are running late. They arrive after lunch and park themselves in front of the X-Box in the family room, giving me plenty of time to research schizophrenia on my laptop. Since Mom was diagnosed when Suri was a toddler, I know a little about it already. It’s a chronic condition that requires lifelong treatment. Patients are supposed to be on medication even when they feel like they’ve got the condition beat.
    The new bit of information is that the condition has a strong genetic link.
    The symptoms, though, aren’t what I expect. I can’t ever remember my mother being angry, violent or argumentative. It wouldn’t surprise me if she hears voices, but the only other symptom that truly fits is she’s delusional. I mean, enemies? C’mon.
    I’m the one who has enemies, Roxy Cooper among them.
    “Oh, shit,” I say aloud, remembering the genetic link. “Paranoid much?”
    I clamp a hand over my mouth. Now I’m talking to myself.
    By the time Mom and Suri get home, though, I still can’t make myself accept that the incident in the forest with the clown didn’t happen. Sick of my own company, I head for the door. My mother follows me into the driveway, hovering nearby while I yank on my bicycle helmet and check the pressure of my bicycle tires.
    “Why don’t you stick around for dinner?” she asks. “I’m making lasagna with some of that crusty bread you like.”
    She’s trying to bribe me with my favorite meal, like I’m Julian or something.
    “No thanks.”
    “Where are you going?”
    “Out. Don’t wait up.”
    She tilts her head. “But it’ll be dark soon, sweetheart.”
    “What? Are you afraid I think that evil thrives in the darkness? That my enemies are out there, lurking in the shadows, waiting for their moment?”
    “Do you?” Empathy shines out of her eyes, the way it had last night when she theorized how alike we were. “Should I make an appointment for you to talk to someone?”
    “No.”
    Priority number one is getting the hell away from her. Hopping on my bicycle, I coast down the driveway and turn toward town.
    “Be careful out there,” my mother calls after me.
    I pedal faster, putting distance between us before I retort something like Nobody with pasty skin is getting near my