I open my mouth. Close it.

Jackson talked about me.

To his mom.

I don’t know how that’s supposed to make me feel, but I can’t deny the whisper of warmth that melts the edges of the ice that’s been riding in my veins ever since I realized Jackson didn’t make it back.

“Um, yeah. Used to be. Not anymore. I mean, I don’t compete anymore. I still practice in the basement, though.” Okay . . . could I be any more nervous meeting Jackson’s mom? And exactly why am I so nervous?

Luka shifts his weight beside me—right foot to left, then back again. The silence stretches. Mrs. Tate tips her head, like she’s trying to figure something out.

“We should, uh, get going,” Luka says.

With a backward wave, Mrs. Tate heads for her front door and Luka and I grab our backpacks from the Jeep.

“Shouldn’t we give those to his mom?” I jut my chin at the keys in Luka’s hand.

He stares at the keys like they have fangs. “Shit.”

I expect him to sprint for the door and hand them over. Instead he tosses them to me.

“I don’t think I can spew one more lie without breaking,” he says.

Leaving my pack on the drive, I jog toward the door just as Jackson’s mom is closing it.

“Mrs. Tate,” I call. She pauses and looks at me, leaving the door wide. I can hear a phone ringing somewhere inside the house. “Jackson’s keys.” I hold them up.

She holds up one finger in the universal sign for wait, then gestures me inside and hurries down the hall to grab the phone. Not sure what else to do, I shrug in Luka’s direction and step inside. After a few seconds’ deliberation, I leave the door open behind me.

Mrs. Tate’s voice carries to me, a murmur of sound without words. I wonder if she rushed to answer because she thought it might be her son calling. That’s what my mom would have done—run for the phone if she thought it was me.

But I know it isn’t Jackson calling.

And my mom will never again run to catch my phone call.

With a sigh I take a couple of steps deeper into Jackson’s house, curious. On the outside, it’s a few decades old, like mine. But inside, it’s been renovated. I think a wall or two has been taken down to create an open flow from living room near the front of the house to dining room near the back. Slate tiles in the foyer. Hardwood floor stretching down the hallway and through the rooms I can see. The walls are the color of cappuccino.

I sidle in another step, my gaze darting to the staircase. I wonder if I could get away with running upstairs, finding Jackson’s room, searching it. I could say I lent him some school notes. Or a textbook. Maybe a copy of Bleach. Or—

Right. Like I’ll get away with that. Back on the driveway, I got the feeling that Mrs. Tate’s already suspicious or, if not suspicious, wary.

I take a step back toward the door, which brings me alongside a narrow, rectangular console table with a bunch of photos with brushed-nickel frames. I step a little closer, wondering if I should just drop the keys on the table and go.

But I can’t resist those photos.

Leaning in, I examine each one. A little girl and an even littler boy, holding hands, smiling wide, impossibly cute. Same girl and boy a few years later, standing in the surf as it laps across white sand, bright pails in their hands. A family of four: mom, dad, older sister, younger brother with the Grand Canyon in the background. I’m guessing I’m looking at twelve-year-old Jackson. That would be around the time he was first pulled into the game.

I can’t help it. I trail my fingertip lightly over the image of him, then move to the next. A picture of the girl, looking about fourteen or fifteen, sitting in a kayak, smiling at the camera, the sun reflecting off the water around her. Her hair’s light brown, streaked gold by the sun, tied back in a ponytail, her eyes hidden by sunglasses.

The final picture is a close-up of the same girl’s face—a face I recognize. I’ve seen it before, eyes closed, skin pale. I’m dragged back to the cave where dozens of clones with that exact face lay lifeless and rotting on rows and rows of gurneys. Please don’t let Jackson be somewhere like that. Please. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly chilled.

“We took that shortly before she . . .” Jackson’s mom says softly, right beside me. I almost jump through the roof. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, I . . . I’m sorry.” I hold the keys out to her and drop them in her upturned palm. I can’t stop myself from shooting a last glance at the picture.

“Lizzie,” she says. “My daughter.”

I nod. I almost say I’m sorry again. But I know how I feel when people say that to me. Why are they sorry? It isn’t their fault.

Instead, I say, “Time doesn’t heal all wounds. It’s a lie people say to make us feel better. Make themselves feel better.” As soon as the last syllable trails away, I want to reach out and catch it and take it back. I don’t know why I said that.

The expression on Mrs. Tate’s face is an odd combination of sad and surprised. “No,” she says, drawing out the word, “time doesn’t heal all wounds. But it dulls them. Remembering hurts less. The good stays bright and sharp. The bad gets pushed to a place it can’t hurt us as much anymore. You’ll see.” She touches my arm in sympathy.

I open my mouth only to find that I don’t know what to say.

Jackson must have told her about my mom. I haven’t even told my dad that Jackson exists, never mind anything personal about him.