In the morning, I went to the police station, with a tiny desperate hope that they could help after all, although I had a hard time piecing together what I would say to them. How could I possibly explain how we’d arrived at this point? I imagined George Samson looking at me like I was crazy. I imagined what he’d say: so now tell me again—really slowly—why were you sleeping at a hotel? And why exactly did you think he might be your dead brother? And what exactly made him think he could climb in bed beside you?

The police station was homey in a way I did not expect. There were yellow-and-white-checkered curtains in the windows, and a kind of reading nook in one corner, with an old gray armchair and a bookshelf full of books and magazines, and one lamp giving off a warm glow. On the counter in front of George was a collection of Hummel figurines. It was warm and smelled like microwave popcorn.

“Can I help you?” someone said, and suddenly I understood the yellow curtains and collection of Hummel figurines. The receptionist was short and round and very sweet. Her sweetness was almost aggressive, the way she clasped her plump hands and leaned forward to listen to me.

“I’m Lydia Moore,” I began. “I—I live here.”

“Marlene Hart,” she said. “I’ve been here—” she thumped her palm on the desk “—since 1972. Now I’m surprised I don’t know you. I usually know all the kids on the island. They usually show up here at least once or twice.”

“Well, I never got in trouble,” I said.

“That explains it then.”

“But my brother is Lucas Moore.”

“Okay,” she said, nodding. “Now, how is he?” She looked sympathetic, expecting the worst apparently.

“Well, I think we need help. Lucas and I both. It’s hard to explain.”

We were interrupted by the bells on the door as it swung open, and Stephanie Conn walked in with Eva Cardoza. Stephanie, of course, was married to Stephan, both of whom I knew from the island school. They were the ones I often saw together at Jack’s late at night, looking into each other’s eyes, still so lost in the romantic bubble of first love they could hardly hear when someone spoke directly to them. I’d envied them so often. I’d wanted that kind of love, that intensity of belonging.

Now Stephanie was sporting a puffy black eye and a long gash on her cheek. She was crying, noisily, like a little kid, an unabashed sound, guttural, indulgent. Eva Cardoza, who was leading her by the elbow, looked like the sound hurt her ears.

“Again?” Marlene said. “I don’t know why you keep bringing her here. Honey, you have to go to the doctor. You might need stitches.”