Take your hand off my sister. Ryan tightened his grip on Nia's wrist while Jake kept filming. Naomi didn't shout. She just stepped between them, calm enough to make the silent hallway uneasy. Then a scratched bronze heron swung from her gym bag, and Walter froze at the sight of it.
His cart was already rolling closer as the camera kept recording. Ryan thought he had cornered two frightened girls. He had no idea what that tiny pin was about to expose. At 7:42 on Friday evening, rain struck the glass walls of Riverton Athletic Center, hard enough to make the building sound hollow. Inside, the donor reception was ending.
Soft jazz still drifted from the ballroom upstairs. Crystal glasses clinkedked. Men in dark suits shook hands beneath warm gold lights while women in tailored coats waited near the elevators. Through the tall windows, black sedans and polished SUVs glistened beneath the parking lot lamps. Naomi Carter had spent nearly 4 hours carrying trays through that room.
Now all she wanted was the bus home. She adjusted the strap of her battered Navy gym bag across one shoulder and walked beside her twin sister through the service corridor behind the catering kitchen. Their matching volunteer shirts were plain white cotton, their black slacks inexpensive, their shoes still damp from the rain they had crossed earlier that evening. Nia glanced at the clock above the loading entrance. 7:42.
Naomi knew what that meant. If we miss the 49, mom's going to worry. The next one's only 20 minutes later. In this rain, Nia gave her a tired smile. Good point.
They were 19, born 11 minutes apart, similar enough that strangers often stared twice, but different in ways people noticed once they knew them. Nia carried her emotions close to the surface. Naomi kept hers somewhere deeper. Tonight, both were exhausted. They were halfway down the narrow corridor when three figures stepped from beside a stack of folded banquet tables.
Naomi stopped. Nia did too. Ryan Whitmore stood in the center. 22 years old, expensive charcoal jacket, clean white sneakers that probably cost more than Naomi's monthly bus pass. His blonde hair was still perfectly combed despite the weather.
Jake Miller leaned against the wall beside him, already holding his phone chest high. The red recording light was on. Connor Reed stood on Ryan's other side. Connor wasn't smiling. That was the first thing Naomi noticed.
The second was that Ryan had positioned them carefully. A cinder block wall on one side, storage carts on the other, the twins behind them, the loading doors ahead. Ryan smiled. Leaving through the back. Naomi's hand remained loose beside her leg.
We're leaving. Ryan looked at their clothes. You girls clean up after the donors, too, or just carry plates. Nia inhaled sharply. Naomi felt it before her sister said anything.
Nia, just her name. Quiet. Enough. Nia looked at Naomi, then back at Ryan. "We volunteered here," she said.
"I know." Ryan's smile widened. "That's what makes it funny." Rain rattled against the metal loading doors. Somewhere behind the kitchen, a dishwasher slammed shut.
Naomi stepped slightly forward. "Move, please." Ryan blinked as though the politeness offended him more than anger would have. "Still doing that?" Doing what?
That calm little voice. Jake shifted the phone to keep Naomi centered in the frame. Ryan glanced toward the camera. Then he looked at her again. You know what I think?
Naomi said nothing. I think you've been pretending for weeks. Nia's jaw tightened. Naomi could feel her sister beside her like a wire pulled taut. Ryan took one slow step closer.