That was when his heart stopped.
On the sidewalk, huddled under the awning of a closed-down pawn shop, were four girls.
Not one. Not two. Four.
They looked to be about nine or ten years old. They were shivering violently, dressed in coats that were clearly donated—too big, mismatched, and threadbare. They weren’t selling gum. They were holding each other for warmth, their small breaths creating clouds in the freezing air.
But it wasn’t their poverty that made Marcus freeze. It was their faces.
They were identical. Quadruplets.
And they were identical to her.
They had the same wavy chestnut hair that caught the streetlamp’s light. The same stubborn set of the jaw. And when one of them looked up at the idling luxury car, Marcus felt like he had been shot in the chest.
The eyes.
They were his eyes.
A deep, piercing emerald green with flecks of gold. A genetic anomaly known as central heterochromia. It was the Blackwood trademark. A trait that had run in his family for generations.
“Frank, stop the car,” Marcus whispered. His voice, usually commanding, sounded broken.
“Sir, the light is turning green. We can’t park here, it’s a tow zone and—”
“I said stop the damn car!” Marcus roared, slamming his hand against the leather seat.
