I looked at the guy in the corner booth—squinted my eyes and tilted my head. He did look a little like Heath—minus the scar and technology, obviously.

“I’m going to go ask him if he’s the fake Heath Hall.” Amelia stood.

“Go for it,” I said, knowing she wouldn’t.

She sat back down. “You’re right. It’s probably not him. I’ve never even seen that guy at our school.”

I laughed. “Let’s get together tomorrow with our laptops. We’ll figure out who he really is. It shouldn’t be that hard.”

Five

The next day on my way out the door to Amelia’s, I stopped by my mom’s office to say goodbye. I found her on the phone in the middle of a conversation.

“I realize the run is still eight months away, but the work starts well in advance and most of our sponsors have already committed. We have to get T-shirts designed, our website up and running for registration. It’s a long process.”

I stood in the doorway for a minute, hoping she’d just look up and I’d wave, then point at my cell phone, letting her know she could call me if she had any questions. I even cleared my throat a few times, but she never glanced my way. Instead, she wrote in neat, even strokes in the notebook on the desk in front of her. I knew how long these phone calls could last.

Her office was a maze of clear plastic bins, her preferred method of organization. I had no idea how she found anything. Each was stacked full of T-shirts or flyers or personalized pens or visors or who knew what else.

I noticed her cell phone sitting on the desk next to her so I sent a text: Mom, I’m going to Amelia’s.

Her phone dinged and she looked at it, then up at me with an eye roll. I just smiled. She held up a finger to me.

Into her office phone she said, “I’ll send you the paperwork, then, and get back to you next week. How does that sound?” After a pause she clicked her pen and set it on the desk with a nod. “Okay. Thank you so much.”

She ended the call, then set down the phone.

I nodded toward it. “You didn’t even give yourself a two-week break? Already working on the next event?”

“Fund-raising breaks for no one.”

“How is it going? Getting sponsors?”

“We’re on track.” She glanced at her watch, then looked up. “Isn’t this early for you and Amelia?”

“I wouldn’t exactly call ten a.m. ‘early.’”

She smiled. “You know what I mean.”

“We have a project we’re working on,” I said. She probably thought I meant something for school, but it was easier to let her think that than explain what we were really up to. “Can I take the car?”

“Sure. What time will you be home?”

“I’m not sure. Can I text you?”

“Sounds good. See you later.”

I nodded, thought about weaving through her plastic bin maze to give her a hug but changed my mind when she picked up her phone again. As if she’d read my mind, she kissed the air in my general direction. I turned and headed toward the front door.

I nearly ran over my dad, who was on his way into the kitchen.

“Where are you off to?” he asked.

“Amelia’s. I told Mom.”

“Sounds good. Don’t do anything stupid and remember who you are.” This was his standard line when I was going anywhere.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll remember exactly who I am when I’m doing something stupid.”

“Ha-ha.” He playfully squeezed my arm, then looked over my shoulder down the hall. “Your mom still trying to swindle people out of their money?”

“Fund-raising breaks for no one.”

He lowered his brow. “I’m pretty sure it breaks for me.”

“Yeah, me too.” I sighed. “Maybe she can let someone else be in charge of the next race.”

“Are you going to suggest that to her or am I?”

“Totally your job. I’m too young to die.” The second the words were out of my mouth I wished I could take them back. “Sorry.”

He pulled me into a hug. “Don’t be. You are. Far too young.”

Two hours later, I sat on Amelia’s bed, my laptop open in front of me, studying fake Heath Hall’s account. I was writing down anyone who’d commented on his posts and especially those he’d commented back to. Amelia had her laptop open as well and she was furiously scribbling names into a notebook of the people from our school who followed him. He had about six hundred followers, so it was taking her a while to weed out the ones that went to our school.

“So thinking back to that night at the pool,” Amelia said, pausing for a moment. “You can’t remember anything about him?”

“I remembered he was a he,” I said.

“Right.” She tapped the notebook with the pen. “What about his ethnicity? Was he white? Black? Latino?”

“He was wearing a rash guard. And the light from the pool makes everyone all glowy.”

She lowered her chin. “Seriously?”

“I was angry! And I was in my prerace zone! And . . . I don’t know. I think he was white?”

“You are no help whatsoever.” She picked up the notebook and ran her pen along the page, her lips moving silently as she did. “One hundred and seven people from our school follow him. If we weed out all the girls . . .” She counted again. “That’s seventy-two. He must be one of these seventy-two.”

I hugged one of her pillows to my chest. “You think the real person behind the mask follows his own fake profile?”

“Yes. I do. And do you know who is on this list of guys from our school who follow him?” She gave me a sympathetic look that I didn’t understand.

“I have no idea,” I said when I realized she was waiting for a response. “The fake Wolverine?”

“No. Robert.”

I held back a gasp and managed to keep my expression in check.

“Robert,” she said again as if I hadn’t heard her loud and clear the first time. “As in, your ex.”

“Yes. I got it,” I said before she could say his name for a third time. I didn’t want to think of my ex. I’d done a pretty good job of just that for the last several weeks. I didn’t want to think about his smile or the way he rambled when he was nervous and sang off key when he wanted to make me laugh. The way he’d dumped me out of the blue for a really stupid reason.

“If Robert is following him, maybe he knows something.” She waved her hand at my paper. “Did he comment on any of his posts?”

“No,” I said curtly.

“You have to talk to him.”

“What? No!” To be fair, Amelia wasn’t a bad friend for suggesting I talk to the guy who had ripped out my heart. I just hadn’t been completely honest with her about how “mutual” the breakup was. In reality, there was nothing mutual about it. Robert had broken up with me because he said I was too intense, too single-minded. So I took swimming seriously. It was my ticket to a good college. I had to.

“Come on. He’ll tell you. Just ask.”

I did not want to talk to Robert. I was over him . . . mostly. Talking to him would lead to a major relapse. I was sure of it. But maybe she was right. Maybe he really would know who this guy was. Why else would he follow a fake account? It didn’t seem like him at all. So he obviously had some sort of vested interest in what was happening. At the very least, he’d probably been to a few of the other disturbances caused by the guy. Maybe he’d seen something.