Marcy’s group starts whispering and giggling as Jackson unfolds the note and reads it—all except Marcy. She just watches him, confident and poised and expectant. I stay where I am, curious. And if I’m honest, just a little wary. I know what she wants. I’m almost a hundred percent certain that Jackson won’t give it to her.

But there’s this very tiny ridiculous part of me that worries he might. Because Jackson and I do have a problem or two. Having him in my life comes with a hefty price—the game—and he’s the one who set that price. Our relationship is predicated on the way he betrayed me for his own gain. All of which suggest that I’d be the one doing the leaving, not him. But that doesn’t seem to matter any more than the fact that he couldn’t follow through in the end, that he stayed in the game so I could go. I can’t quite forgive him for that, can’t quite let go of the possibility that he might betray me again, no matter how hard I try. Stupid. I know.

I suck at forgiveness. Dr. Andrews has told me a million times that I need to work on letting go, but there’s a part of me that holds a grudge like it’s superglued.

I’m not proud of that part, but it is what it is.

Jackson refolds the note and saunters over to Marcy, his back to me.

He holds out his index and middle fingers, the note sandwiched between them. I think he says something.

Marcy’s face flushes red and her cat-got-the-cream smile disappears. She snatches the note and, with a flip of her hair, she turns and marches off, her ladies-in-waiting skittering in her wake.

Jackson turns, catches me watching, and heads in my direction. I duck my head, embarrassed.

I want to ask what that was all about, but I don’t, because Jackson really could go out with pretty much any girl he wants.

I have to believe that the fact he’s with me means I’m that girl.

If we don’t have trust, we don’t have much.

Ugh. Moments like this, when my own insecurities rear their ugly heads and test me, when I’m the girl who was mourning while everyone else was learning the dating dance . . . these moments make trust the hardest. But is it Jackson I don’t have enough faith in, or me?

“Checking up on me?” Jackson asks as he plants his palm flat against the wall just above my left shoulder.

I cut him a look through my lashes, go up on my toes, and whisper in his ear, “If she can get you, she can have you.”

He laughs. As he draws back, I know he’s studying my face from behind his opaque lenses. “She can’t get me, Miki. You know that. It’s been you all along, ever since Atlantic Beach.”

I hear the crash of the waves, feel the water on my skin as a memory comes alive. Mine? Jackson’s? He has this weird ability to talk inside my head, and a couple of times he’s even pushed one of his memories to blend with mine. I taste salt on my tongue, feel it stinging my eyes. There’s a boy on the beach, his hair flashing gold in the sun. Then I’m not seeing him, I’m seeing me, seeing what he sees. I dive, the water closing over me, my hair trailing behind me sleek and dark. I come up, blinking water from my lashes. There’s the tattoo of an eagle over my heart, only partially covered by my bathing suit. I turn and look at him, my eyes blue. Indigo blue. And I feel his shock, his interest.

He’s torn. He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to drag someone else into the game. But here I am, a gift dropped right in front of him, a way out. He wants me even as he plans to betray me.

Then his emotions undulate and shift, different now. The catch of awareness. Attraction.

His.

Mine.

Powerful.

He wants to kiss me, touch me. . . .

Snap. I’m back in the hallway, the noise from the caf pouring through the open double doors.

I aim for a cocky expression. He laughs again, soft and low.

My skin tingles. For a second, I think it’s from the way the sound of that laugh winds around my heart.

But the tingle grows stronger, sharper. It isn’t pleasant. The hairs at my nape prickle and rise. A shudder crawls up my spine.

“What?” Jackson asks, suddenly alert.

“Creepy feeling,” I say. “Like someone watching me, or walking over my grave.”

“I hate that expression,” Jackson says. Then he juts his chin to my left. “That someone?”

I turn to look, and there’s Marcy, the expression on her face as sour as month-old milk in the back of the fridge. Kathy stands beside her. And, yeah, they’re both watching us. I remember the nightmare, Marcy growing and growing and Kathy shrinking. I almost tell him about it, but I can just imagine the smug look he’d give me and the way he’d ask if I’m jealous.

“Not them,” I say, careful with my words. Not any of the kids walking along the hall. After my first mission, Luka told me that we don’t talk about the game outside the game. I didn’t get it at first. Then I found out it’s because the Drau can watch us anywhere, using human satellite technology. And they create armies of shells—human forms that house Drau consciousness. I’ve only ever seen their failed attempts at those, but what if they’ve succeeded? The shells could be anywhere. Anyone. Any kid walking past.

Marcy.

Kathy.

Mrs. Tilson, carrying her mug of steaming tea. Any one of the lacrosse guys shoving one another and laughing as they walk.

“Not them,” I say again, but I’m not so sure anymore.

“Someone else?” Jackson asks.

“Something else.”