And I hate to think—I’m dreading to dwell on—the realization that I’m not really looking forward to the next tweet. Because that means I’ll be one step closer either to finding the thief or to the thief outing me, and either way that is another step farther along the tightrope away from Harper.

There have been so many chances to tell her the truth and yet…

“Save Amara!” I call to a passing Spider-Man, and he takes the pin with a nod.

Harper finishes setting up her side of the booth, various art prints and stickers and enamel pins laid out across the table, and then opens her sketchbook to work on commissions. We sit in comfortable silence as she draws and I hand out pins, asking people to sign the petition, even though it goes against everything I want in my career.

I’m doing it to keep in character, I convince myself as I clip a pin onto a small Amara and watch her toddle away with her mother.

“Your brother’s trying out for quarterback, right?” Harper asks as she sketches the face of Obi-Wan Kenobi, Space Daddy (the commissioner’s request, not my words).

“Um…yeah.” I think she’s talking about Milo. Imogen doesn’t have another brother, does she?

“Has he heard anything yet?”

“Um, I don’t think so.”

She nods, looking up from her sketch, and her eyebrows furrow in uncertainty. “Um, Imogen?”

“Hmm?”

My name is Jess, I should say.

“Would you…would you want to go to the ExcelsiCon Ball with me tonight?”

My breath catches and I swallow hard to keep the answer from rising up out of my throat. I hesitate because I’m not Imogen, and I am standing on the edge, and this is very, very bad—

“Or not,” she adds when I don’t say anything. “I mean, dances are stupid anyway.”

“No, Harper, that’s not—”

A familiar ringtone breaks out from my back pocket. At first I think I imagine it—but no, it’s definitely the Pokémon theme song.

Only one person is assigned that ringtone.

“Excuse me,” I apologize, and slip out of the booth. I retreat to the outer corner of Artists’ Alley, near where the pretzel man set up shop. It’s a little quieter here, and it gives me space to shrug out of Imogen’s character without anyone noticing. I check my phone.

I have a missed call and a text from Ethan.

ETHAN TANAKA (12:02 PM)

—Jess, another tweet is up.

—[Link]

—I think you need to call Darien.

I click on the link, even though I already know I don’t want to read it. The dreamy haze that has danced in my head all morning crystalizes with a cold burst of dread.

CARMINDOR DIES, the tweet reads.