I catch my tongue between my teeth and nod. “I’ll try.”

I will. I just don’t know if I’ll succeed.

I think of Dad and what it will be like for him if he wakes up and I’m not there. I think of Carly and all the things I want to do for her when I get back. And I realize I have to do more than try. I have to succeed. I can’t die in the game. I won’t be the one who leaves.

“I will keep you safe, Miki,” Jackson says, and then presses his lips to mine. “I swear it.” He pulls back; his expression shifts, growing harder, colder. He tips his glasses back down, clasps my hand tight in his, and heads for the door.

“You stay close,” he warns.

“Close enough that you can hear me breathe,” I say.

“Stay behind me.”

I slide my fingers between his, then curl them in. “I’ll stay beside you.”

He glances at me and smiles, a spare curl of his lips that hints at the dimple in his cheek. “Beside me, then.”

“What is this place?”

“Don’t know,” Jackson says, his tone terse. “Never seen it before.”

“I have. In a nightmare.”

He turns his head and I can feel him studying me even though I can’t see his eyes. “Tell me.”

“It was exactly like this. The walls. The floor.” I jut my chin forward. “The door. When I went through—” I break off, hesitate.

“Tell me,” he says again.

“When I went through, the girl with the green eyes was waiting for me. She had a Drau weapon. She aimed it. Fired.” I shiver, remembering, and as I do, I can see the spray of tiny droplets of bright pain shooting toward me. Skimming my left shoulder. Missing me. “She wasn’t firing at me,” I say. “She was firing at something behind me.”

Jackson nods. “We’ll count your dream as a warning.”

Cautious, we make our way to the door, separating just before we get there, Jackson going to one side, me to the other. I’m not sure why we bother. We have no weapons and there’s no doubt that whoever brought us here knows we’re here.

I’m about to say exactly that when Jackson says, “They know we’re here. Let’s just do this. Find out who they are and what they want.”

“Great minds think alike.”

We walk through the door to a curving corridor. The sight lines suck. We can’t see what’s waiting around any corner, because there are no corners.

Despite Jackson’s jacket, I’m shivering. The air’s cold and dry and smells artificial, like there’s a hint of air freshener being pumped in.

We don’t pass any windows or doors, just smooth, white walls, white ceiling, white floor that all meld together seamlessly so I can’t tell where one stops and the other starts.

At one point I pause and stretch my hands out to both sides, wondering how wide the corridor is. My fingers extend as far as they can go, but I don’t hit anything solid. So it’s wider than my arm span.

We keep going, following the curve, until ahead we see a massive arced bank of what appears to be computers. There’s a person there with her hands on some sort of control panel. She’s dressed all in white, her back to us, her hair pulled in a high ponytail.

She twists at the waist and turns her head back toward us until we have a three-quarter view of her face.

Jackson stops dead.

Her nose. The shape of her face.

Her eyes.

“There you are,” Lizzie says, and smiles.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

JACKSON PRACTICALLY VIBRATES WITH TENSION. HIS BREATHING’S shallow and faster than normal.

He wants to kill her, this shell who wears his sister’s face.

I can feel his emotions like they’re my own.

“Stop,” Lizzie says, her smile turning to a glare. “No one’s killing anyone. Typical Jackson, bristling like a hedgehog.”

I blink at that description. Not one I would have thought of. “We don’t have much time. I can’t keep you here for long,” she says.

“Where’s here?” I ask.

She shoots me a look so reminiscent of one of Jackson’s looks that it hurts my heart to see it. “Does it matter?”

“What do you want?” Jackson asks, his voice harder than I’ve ever heard it, his expression liquid-nitrogen cold.

“I know things. You need to know them, too.” Her expression shifts to one of concern, and she turns back to the control panel ahead of her, touching things, skimming her hands over molten, glowing surfaces. “We have to hurry.”

“And why would I believe anything you tell me?” Jackson asks.

“That’s a problem, isn’t it? I have about three minutes to gain your trust.” She pauses. “The box of candy we were sharing the night we got in the accident . . . it was chocolate-covered peanuts.”

Jackson crosses his arms over his chest. “Good guess.” He doesn’t seem impressed.

“The summer you were twelve, we took a family trip to the Grand Canyon. I was scared of heights and didn’t want to go near the edge. You held my hand.”

This time, Jackson doesn’t say anything.

But I’m not convinced that info is something only his sister would know. I saw pictures of his family at the Grand Canyon. Maybe somehow, a Drau did, too.

Lizzie glances back at the panel in front of her and her breathing speeds up. “You were born with an opaque layer over your corneas,” she says, talking very fast now. “But you could see perfectly well. Your eyes changed a little at a time until you were about six, and then they’ve been Drau gray ever since.”