“That is none of your concern, young lady,” Fleischer answers coldly. “You may go.”

She turns back to her papers—probably detention slips she’s filling out—leaving me with no choice but to turn around and leave, my head spinning.

Jane’s not here? She’s gone back to California. Why do I get the sense that this is Gravelle’s doing, because he somehow knows that we know about Ollie? Could this be a coincidence? Possibly. If what he truly wants is to lure Jane to Castor Island, then this wrinkle won’t help him.

As I walk away from Jane’s office, blindsided, I consider my options. I could call her. But I can’t tell Jane about Ollie over the phone. She’d panic. And whatever has brought her back to California, whether it’s urgent Ward, Inc. business or something with Booker, I can’t spring this Ollie news on her. It could send her into a tailspin.

“We’ll wait,” I tell my friends, resolutely, at lunch.

“Are you sure?” Maude asks, barely touching the sandwich on her plate.

“No,” I answer honestly. “But I don’t see how freaking her out so she rushes back here will help. Do you?”

None of my friends answer, because the truth is, we simply don’t know.

I’m a wreck for the next week. I can barely concentrate on my classes and only manage to go through the motions of extracurriculars and homework and meals. There’s only one thing on my mind: Ollie.

I worry that he’s suffering. I worry that Gravelle is putting him through more mind control on Castor Island. I worry that he’s being forced to relive the worst moments of his life, over and over again. I don’t let myself indulge in my worst fear of all—that Ollie’s not with Gravelle, but lying dead somewhere, lifeless.

Compounding my heartbreak over Ollie’s absence is the unwelcome presence of his Duplicate. He’s so like Ollie, in every way—yet I know it’s not him. It isn’t this boy’s fault. He’s a pawn like the rest of us. And I do my best not to let on that something’s wrong, because I don’t want him reporting back to Gravelle that we’re on to him. Until we figure out what we’re going to do, we have to play the game. That means I have to act like everything’s normal when Duplicate Ollie’s around. We all do.

It takes every effort I have left to continue our easy banter. To answer his sweet and sarcastic comments with our usual relaxed rapport. My heart’s not in it. In fact, it’s tangled and battered and more bruised than ever. Pretending this Duplicate Ollie is my best friend is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.