Wait.
That’s not her shoulder.
It’s not—it’s notstrongenough.
“You said,” I say quietly.
“Yes. I said.”
Jesus.That’s not her voice either. “And who, exactly, are you?”
She doesn’t move.
She doesn’t even breathe.
Time stands still, my question hanging in the air between us, until she slowly rolls her head to the side and attempts to eviscerate me with a glare. “What kind of question isthat?”
I blink.
Then I blink again.
She looks like Tavi.
She does.
The eyes, the nose, the mouth—but her ears are wrong.
Her ears are wrong.
I blink and rub my eyes one more time. “Who—”
“Shut up,” she whispers. “Lola could be listening, or Carter, or Gigi, and you donotwant to fuck this up, or I will fuckyouup, because that’s what you do for your friends.”
I swallow.Hard.There are so many questions.Somany questions. “We should have breakfast tomorrow.”
“No.”
A low growl wells up in my throat.
She matches it with a glower in her eyeballs. “Maybe, like, in a few days. When I can walk again.”
Is that code? Does that mean Tavi’s coming back? TherealTavi, not this freaky look-alike?
Is this a dream? Am I hallucinating?
“And don’t, like, go ask Phoebe what’s wrong with me,” she adds. “She, like, doesn’t know me nearly as well as thisnew Phoebethinks she does.”
And I’m officially creeped out.
This woman isnotTavi.
But if it weren’t for the missing birthmark, she might’ve actually fooled me.
Also?
What the ever-loving fuck is going on?
Who—who—is this woman? Why does she look like Tavi?
