Free The End Of Desire: A Rowan Gant Investigation by M. R. Sellars

believed it anymore.
    The real problem was the second voice’s
partner in all this. It was the one that worried me most. It came
to me as little more than a murmur of support for the heretofore
failing argument; however, I wasn’t completely fooled. I could
sense that it had its own agenda with a horribly dark intent. But,
even more frightening than its intent was the power it seemed to
carry with it. I only wished that I had recognized that fact a bit
sooner because it wasn’t until it had all but assumed control that
I realized the source—it had joined forces with the sickeningly
pleasant tickle that had been set loose in my body, and together
they were drowning out all good sense and reason. As I had feared,
Miranda was trying me on for size.
    Even as I fought to maintain control, my
tenuous grip on my perceived reality faltered, and the vision
stepped in to take its place.
     
    Though I can see her only in profile, I
swear that my wife is in front of me at this very moment, sitting
astride the bound man. She is positioned such that she is pitched
backward; her arms are outstretched behind her, straining and
rigid. Her hands are clamped firmly to his thighs as she supports
herself. Her back is arched, and her chest is rising and falling at
a quickened pace. I can hear her panting just as I can hear the
man’s muffled squeals of agony.
    She has one stocking-clad leg extended in
front of her, bent slightly at the knee, and I see the muscles of
her calf flexing as they keep a tight rhythm with her panting
breaths. Her foot is pressed against the man’s upper arm, pinning
it against the headboard. Her calf is flexing because she is slowly
twisting her stiletto heel into the flesh of his bicep. The end of
the spike disappears into the deep depression it has created, and
blood is oozing from the wound.
     
    Colors bloomed as realities once again
shifted, and I found myself back in the motel room alone. The
roller coaster ride of channeled visions was tossing me haphazardly
about and depositing me wherever its whim desired. Not particularly
unusual as such ethereal events go, but I didn’t think I would ever
get used to it.
    I blinked.
    I remembered Ben telling me before I ever
boarded the plane to come here that he was looking at a picture of
Annalise and that she was a dead ringer for Felicity. I suppose,
however, that simply hearing someone say something like that makes
it easy to discount their opinion. Even though I hadn’t seen the
picture myself, I was positive that I, of all people, would have no
trouble telling the two women apart. After all, I had been married
to one of them for almost fifteen years, so surely I would know my
own wife.
    However, at this moment my personal
perception was no longer crystal clear on that point.
    Without thinking, I muttered aloud,
“Felicity?”
    Her name tumbled into the room wrapped in a
question. I knew the woman I had just seen in front of me couldn’t
possibly be my wife, but the image was truly beyond uncanny.
    As if triggered by my question, the light
overhead bloomed, and I once again found myself with at least one
foot in a different plane of existence.
     
    I can hear my own voice echoing in the room
as I utter my wife’s name.
    Though her breathing never alters from its
frantic pace, the woman suddenly jerks as if startled. Pushing
herself forward, she sits up, still straddling the man. She stops
twisting her heel then drops her foot down to the bed, and her
victim is given a momentary reprieve from his agony. Cocking her
head to one side, she appears to be listening intently, as if she
hears my voice as well.
    Slowly she turns toward me.
    I study her face as she looks through me,
creasing her brow. I can begin to see the differences in her
features, but not at first glance, or even the second for that
matter. I takes a long moment before I am certain that I am not
looking at my wife.
    I remember hearing it said that everyone has
a doppelganger somewhere on the