I’m smiling so big as Casey and I run for the back doors and pull them open. The overhead light turns on, and I see that the van is a dark shade of blue, and inside, there are old blankets and no seats and it smells like smoke in here, too. Like something burning, something changing.
Casey smacks him lightly on the arm from the back of the van. “Took you long enough.”
He grins at her, then catches my eye in the rearview mirror, and says, “Told you.”
The windows up front are tinted. And I think, He has found us the perfect car, because he is perfect. And I wonder if people do this all the time: fall for people because of their ability to pick getaway cars; or fall for people because of the way they look when they think nobody is watching; or fall for people because of the things they say, or the way they look at them, or the things they give up, or the things they cannot do.
I thought it was because of hair and eyes and a sense of humor, or similar personalities and common interests—but it’s not. It’s the ability to pick getaway cars. To weigh crimes. To take the risk on someone again, even when he’s been betrayed once before. To have faith in himself and in me. To see me.
He pulls a knit hat down over his ears, his hair curling out the bottom, and he turns to us for a second as he shifts the van into gear. “Full tank. Tinted windows. No complaining.”
“Good job, little brother,” Casey says.
He looks at me, to check my reaction, and I say, “Blue is my favorite color.”
He smiles.
I smile.
We are not even faking it.
Cameron pauses at the end of the road. “Which way?” he asks, but I know what he’s really asking. Are we going to disappear? Or are we going to take the risk and track down this lead?
Casey is silent, which means that for some reason they’re waiting for me. “If someone’s in the database, and that someone isn’t me,” I say, “then maybe it wasn’t June back then, either.”
Casey stares at Cameron. “I told her about Ava,” she says, and he nods.
I pause, thinking of how to put into words what I’m just barely understanding. “The study. I think it’s wrong.”
“What study? What are you talking about?” Casey asks.
“The big one. The only one that matters! The one June and Liam used. I think, once June got into the database, she saw something. Something that didn’t match. The souls are tagged, but I don’t know how they’re tagged.” I close my eyes, because I know what I’m about to sound like. “I need to get into the database. I need to prove it.”
“That’s … that’s something bigger than us. That’s huge.”
It’s bigger than us, but it’s everything. It’s the force behind all of this. “I can clear June’s name,” I say. And then I think, And yours. And mine.
“Okay,” Cameron says. “Okay. We keep going.”
Dawn is approaching when we make it back onto the highway, me and Casey in the back, no seat belts and viewless, Cameron up front, hoping the tinted windows do their job. I get nauseated, but I don’t get sick. Maybe I’m getting used to it. Maybe motion is just another thing I was deprived of, that I wasn’t accustomed to, and now I’m part of this world, always moving.
Casey hands him the directions. “We should get there before noon,” she says.
“Oh, there’s food under the gray blanket,” he says, and I pull it back to find real food. Fruit in a plastic container and packets of sliced cheese and bottles of water.
“Clothes!” Casey says, grabbing the stash from beside the food. She pulls out two T-shirts and shorts that probably won’t fit right, but at least the shirts cover the uniform. Then I notice that Cameron has changed as well. Khaki shorts, a black T-shirt, like he could fit in anywhere.
“How did you get this?” I ask.
“You don’t want to know,” he says. And then I see the key dangling from the ignition, and I realize he must’ve broken into a home, taken their food, their clothes, and then their car. Maybe while they slept nearby. I feel a twinge of regret, but I still can’t think of a better option.
Casey digs in while looking at some of the figures on the articles. “Was Ava good at computers, too?” I ask.
The van is silent, except for the periodic grooves in the highway that we drive over. Eventually Casey says, “She wasn’t bad at computers, but it wasn’t really her thing. She’d help me if I asked, but she didn’t love it. Not enough to get to my level.” She smiles at me. “People were always surprised by that—that just because we’re twins doesn’t mean we like the same thing. We’re not the same person.”
“Not the same soul,” I add.
“Art,” Cameron says. “She likes art.” His face changes as he thinks about it. “You should’ve seen what she managed to do to the side of our old school with just a few bottles of spray paint,” he says with pride.
“So,” I say, “she was more like you?”
“Ouch,” says Casey.
My face burns, because I didn’t mean it as an insult. “I just meant …”
“I know what you meant. Yes, Alina. Same friends. Same neighborhood. I don’t even have a reason for doing the things I did, I really don’t.”
“Like you ever had a choice,” Casey says. “Come on, your friends practically roped you into it. Guilt by association. You never stood a chance. If I lived there full time, I’d be right there with you both.”
Cameron grimaces. “Nah, I doubt it. The thing is, it was just … effortless. It’s so easy to take the path of least resistance,” he says. “To be exactly who people think you are. To not fight it.” He looks at me then, and says, “And then you’re so deep in it, you figure, this is who I am. And then your girlfriend strikes a deal to save her own ass,” he mumbles.
“Ella?” I ask, and he nods, just the slightest. Then I imagine him with a girlfriend, and I don’t like the way it makes my stomach churn, and I realize I am jealous of even that. Nice, Alina.
“And then,” he says, “because seventeen is considered an adult, and it’s on your record, your name is worthless.”
And maybe you are, too. I can imagine him thinking it, believing it. But he is not.
“It’s just a name,” I say, knowing Casey can make us new identities with time, and maybe money. Not that I’d be able to show my face now. Not that any of us could now. But he could have. Before.
“Do you want to pick a new one?” he asks, one eyebrow raised.
Alina Chase. It comes with a lifetime full of baggage. And yet, here’s the thing: I do not.
Some people believe in karma—that what you do in one life affects the next. But it’s too hard to study, to quantify. Too many variables. What makes one life better than another? Nobody really agrees. Maybe I was terrible in a past life, and that’s why I’m stuck in a prison this time around. But then I look at the people sharing this journey with me and I think, How lucky I am. Does hope count for something?
Maybe there will be a consequence for my choices in the next life. But right now, this is the only one that matters.
I know we’re close when we begin stopping more frequently, turning every few minutes. We’ve moved from the highway into a city, the horns blaring as soon as the lights turn from red to green. I’ve been reading the science articles again, after Casey looked at them sideways, upside down, and backward. “The only thing in common is her name,” she says. Ivory Street. She’s the only thing that stands out.
I think of June’s math, and these papers, and the math in these papers. The formulas are similar. The answers are different.
“Stop,” I say.
Cameron stops. In the middle of the street. A car honks and weaves around us.
“Go,” I say. “Sorry. Just listen. June died. She knew she was going to die. She was scared of it. We need to remember that.”
The mood changes inside the van as we remember. We’re running not only from the people who would punish us but from those who would stop us.