“We trained on the island all the time,” Maude notes, taking a sip from her cup. “But you already know that. How Gravelle made us hold our breath and swim laps… We were strong and athletic, and we had unusual endurance, but that all stemmed from practice. It wasn’t until we were fifteen that we started noticing things. Our bruises healing quickly. Our scrapes scabbing over within a day, rather than several. It was gradual, though. I think puberty may have had something to do with it,” she remarks, blowing on her coffee. “The year before I came to Darkwood, when I was barely sixteen, my abilities exploded. I could suddenly lift enormously heavy weights and leap from trees easily, without worry that I’d sprain an ankle or even break a bone. Because if I did injure myself, I instantly healed.”

“So it didn’t happen until you were a teenager,” I say, processing. “Was it like that for all of you? For Levi?”

“Yes. We all developed our abilities around that same time. But each in our own, unique way. We discussed them endlessly. Compared and contrasted.”

“Are anyone’s abilities…mental?” I ask. Maude looks at me, her face taut.

“Not that I know of,” she explains. “But Gravelle was always hoping one of us would display that kind of talent. Why?”

“No reason,” I tell her, dismissing the whole idea.

The rest of the day, all I can think about is the fact that the Similars’ properties are relatively new. Which means it could all be true.

I’ve been putting it off for so long, confronting this truth that Gravelle insists is my past. I consider my options. I could ask my father. It’s not foolproof; he could easily lie to me, and then I’d be right back where I started. I could ask Gravelle to send proof—the birth certificate he mentioned in his original note—but again, I’d have no way of verifying if he forged it. I can’t think of a single option that would give me the irrefutable evidence I’m looking for, that I’m a clone. A DNA test won’t work, obviously, and I doubt I’d have much luck finding the original Emma’s death records—if she did, indeed, die. It’s beyond infuriating to think that this critical piece of my history, of my identity, is so far out of my grasp. And that Gravelle is probably enjoying making me squirm like this. Keeping me in the dark, indefinitely.