Dear Peter, it read.

Write how you speak, she could hear her sister say.

But Kelsey didn’t write. It was Michelle who had sent letters to Peter. Peter was lied to through the words Kelsey had crossed out and looked up and stolen from her sister’s life. And even when she had acted as herself, he had filtered everything about her through the wrong beginning, the wrong memories, the wrong name.

She would tell him face-to-face, as she had wanted to in Paris, or as close to it as she could get.

She opened her laptop, activated the camera, and waited for the screen to load. A tiny green bulb lit at the top of the monitor. Her own image surprised her.

Normally, when Kelsey Skyped with Peter, she was confined to a small square in the lower right-hand corner of the screen. Now, she faced herself in full, glassy-eyed and paler than she’d ever been, hair unwashed and wavy. She was ready. She pulled the strands back into a neat bun, and pressed RECORD.

“Hi,” she started, and something about the way she could see herself as she really was, as Peter had seen her and believed in her, stalled her words. Not this time. She shook her head. “I’m not going to make this pretty so you’ll have to deal with a lot of stops and… whatever.”

She focused on her lips, the tiny pixels that made them, finally forming the words.

“Michelle is dead.”

She began with the day of the party, the day she met him. The next day, saying good-bye to them from the top of the stairs. The hours passing. The policeman showing up at her house, dissolving life as she knew it into a giant flood, which she had been drowning in ever since.

“I was weak. But that’s no excuse. Or maybe it is an excuse. I don’t know. I’m all mixed up. I can’t get my life in any kind of order. Then there was you.”

When it was finished, she loaded the file onto a flash drive, dropped it into an envelope, and sealed it. She remembered Peter had told her that the wives and children of his friends often sent CDs or flash drives with photos, so they could load them and look at them, even if there was no Internet. She wrote out the address of his base, though she knew he was being moved to an unknown location. It would find him eventually.

“Maybe I am a monster,” she had told him. “But I still love you. Remember? Permanently. And I’m so, so sorry. Take how sorry you think I am and multiply it by a million. I promise I will never lie to you again. And trust me, I know what it’s like to do things every day, like talk to someone and love someone, and then never do it again, all of a sudden. For things never to be the same. So do you. But if you forgive me, I’ll keep my promise forever, no matter if you love me or if you never talk to me again. I love you permanently either way. I know how to do that now.”

Dawn was rising over Lawrence in pinks and oranges and blues as she placed the envelope in the Maxfields’ mailbox.

She shivered, though it wasn’t cold. Summer was coming soon.

Hope and fear were a strange combination, but they were better than before. Maybe he would forgive her, and maybe he wouldn’t, but at least whatever he felt would be real.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Kelsey woke in the bright, bare Chemistry classroom later that morning, her cheek flat against the desk, where drool had collected around her mouth. She sat up and found someone beside her, touching her back.

Gillian.

“Hey,” she said. “Class is over.”

“Oh, right,” Kelsey said, wiping her chin and running her fingers through her hair. “Embarrassing.” On her phone, she saw a text from Meg, introducing herself and asking to meet up and practice her moves. She had made sure to leave Peter’s little sister “Kelsey’s” number. Kelsey was touched, but she couldn’t deal with it now, half-awake.

Gillian’s mouth lifted in a smirk above her. “As your former lab partner, I can assure you that this isn’t the first time you’ve drifted off in Chem.”

Kelsey stood, putting on her backpack. “Yeah, but I didn’t have you to kick me under the table this time.”

“I don’t know if that would have done the trick, honestly,” Gillian said. “You were almost snoring.”

“Huh, well,” Kelsey said, and she flattened her wrinkled dress. She wasn’t in the mood for a lecture. She started to shuffle out of the classroom, yawning, wondering how she would make it through the day.

Gillian stopped her with a hand on the shoulder, and looked closer at her face, speculating. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

In answer, Kelsey pointed to the drool on her desk.

“You need coffee,” Gillian said. “And sugar.”

“I didn’t have time to grab any this morning,” Kelsey said. “So, I guess—”

“Let’s go,” Gillian said, pushing her back.

“It’s only third period, though. Lunch isn’t until—”

“Did I say anything about lunch?” Gillian said, smiling.

Kelsey felt her eyebrows rise without her permission, her mouth turn up at the corners. A thousand pounds lifted off her shoulders. She realized she hadn’t smiled, or felt anything, really, that didn’t have something to do with Peter for the last few weeks. Gillian was not one of Kelsey’s phantoms. She was so solid, so real, next to her, and had evidently decided Kelsey wasn’t a lying piece of crap.

“Why—” she started, and Gillian stopped, turning to look at her. “Why are you talking to me again?”

Gillian pursed her lips, thinking, and then kept walking, forcing Kelsey to follow her. “Because you’re different today. And I’m different today. I just feel different. Best friends have a way of sensing these things, I think. Which I wish I could explain via science, but I can’t—”

“Gil, you’re right.” Kelsey let out a relieved laugh, trying to keep up. “I told him last night. I mean, I took a video of myself telling him. Because it felt too weird to write a letter. Anyway, I sent it in the mail. He’ll get it soon, I hope.”

“I don’t think it even matters when he hears it, actually.”

“What do you mean?”

“You were honest with yourself.”

“And you were going to just, like, ignore me until you felt differently? Until you sensed something?”

Gillian thought for a moment. “Remember when I knew you had gotten your period before you did?”

It was true. She had handed Kelsey a tampon one day their sophomore year, seemingly out of the blue. “Still. That’s crazy.”

Gillian narrowed her eyes, smiling at Kelsey, as if to say, Look who’s talking.

“Fair enough,” Kelsey said, shaking her head.

“We have to swing by Ingrid’s Theater class,” Gillian said, as familiar as could be. “Then you can show us how to skip school.”

Kelsey grinned. “It’s easy, really.…”

Theater class was held in the echoey auditorium at the opposite end of the school. After the bell rang for fourth period, Kelsey and Gillian ducked into the last row, careful not to draw the attention of the Theater teacher, who sat with his back to them. The houselights stayed low.

When Ingrid walked to the center of the stage, Kelsey and Gillian crawled closer to the front, ducking behind the rows of seats.

“My name is Ingrid Krakowski and I will be performing a monogogue from Neil Simon’s classic 1991 play, Lost in Yonkers.”

Gillian almost spit to keep from laughing out loud. Kelsey elbowed her.

“I’m sorry,” Gillian whispered, “but did she just say monogogue?”

Ingrid furrowed her brow and began, tripping over the words with the worst New York accent Kelsey had ever heard. “‘Thirty-five years ago, I could have been fighting’…”