“I do,” Theodora replies. She sends off a hasty buzz. “No response yet. But I bet they don’t let you text all day at Creekside. We could call Creekside directly. If you really think there’s a chance that’s not Tessa out there at the party, and the real Tessa could still be in at her treatment program…”

This all sounds so strange, and we all know it. Not the real Tessa? Then who is it? Another clone? From where?

“It’s worth a shot,” I say. “Dash, locate the number for Creekside Rehabilitation Center.” The others start to make plans. Ansel is going to talk to Archer.

“I’ll hunt down Jake. Ask him what the hell was going on earlier today. And who that other Jake is,” I say, feeling more and more concerned with every passing second. “Pru and Ollie, come with me?” They agree, and we all split up, promising to keep each other apprised if we discover anything. Like any of our teachers…

Pru, Ollie, and I head to the dorms. We knock on doors, check all the common areas and the Tower Room. Nothing suspicious there, but then again, we don’t know what we’re looking for. Pru offers to head to Ransom’s on-campus house, and Fleisher’s, to see if there’s anyone there. She goes, and I lead Ollie to the soccer field.

“They were right here, talking,” I explain. “One of the Jakes—the one in pajamas—was accusing the other Jake of screwing with his life. He said the other one was passing out beer to first years. Not that I’d put it past Jake to do something like that, but… He does take his soccer career pretty seriously. I don’t think he’d want to risk wrecking his whole future by getting caught. And the other Jake didn’t deny it. Then they left.” I lead Ollie in the direction the two Jakes walked, down the path and into the empty athletic building. We enter through the front door and start down the main hallway.

I hear a faint banging sound coming from the other end of the hall. My eyes flash to Ollie’s.

“Did you hear that?” he asks. We sprint toward the noise. It’s followed up by a feeble voice that sounds muffled, like it’s coming from far away.

“Help! Get me out of here!” the voice shouts. “This is not okay!”

I notice the janitor’s closet a few feet away. “Someone’s locked in there,” I tell Ollie. We run to the door, undo the dead bolt that’s pulled neatly across it, and wrench the door open. There, huddled on the floor of the cramped closet, head in his hands, is Jake. Pajama Jake.