“It’s possible that the pawnshop is a front for an illegal adoption agency. I think they might be stealing and selling kids.”

My mom’s jaw drops. “Selling kids?” she asks, clearly horror-stricken.

Captain Moeller rubs his eyes. “It happens more than you’d think. People can’t have them on their own, and they get impatient because regular adoption takes too long. They turn to illegal baby brokers and fork out thousands to buy Junior, no questions asked.”

My mom is quiet for a full two minutes before acknowledging the possibility. Finally, she dares to say it aloud: “You think they stole Jonas and sold him to new parents.”

“It’s possible,” Captain Moeller replies. “I don’t want to get your hopes up, but if that were the case…”

Mom grabs my hand before interrupting.

“Jonas could be alive.”

43

My eyes are still closed, but I’m awake now. The air in the room has shifted.

“London?” my mom whispers. I ignore her. She whispers again, but not to me. The sound is softer, as if she’s turned to someone in the hallway.

“I guess she overslept.”

“Guess so,” the voice whispers back. I wish everyone would shut up. It can’t be time to get ready for school already.

“London, it’s time to get up, honey. You’re going to be late for school,” my mom says in a singsong voice.

Finally, I let loose a long, audible groan and open my eyes.

My room is bright with the morning sun; apparently I forgot to shut the shades last night. The clock reads 7:00. Ugh. My mom stands in the doorway with a funny look on her face, blocking another person from view.

“What are you doing?” I ask, showing my displeasure.

“Good morning, London,” she says awkwardly, ignoring my question. “Do you want to read your notes?”

I furrow my eyebrows at her, and she smiles like a pageant contestant.

“No,” I grumble. “Who’s with you?”

The mystery visitor shifts and the floor creaks. I sit up in bed and try to see around my mom. She stays where she is for a few seconds, then throws up her hands.

“Fine, I’ll catch you up,” she says, entering the room and sitting down on the desk chair. The visitor tentatively steps into the room, bearing coffee and a bag of something I hope is a scone. I admire his striking features, piercing eyes, flawlessly messy hair.

“Hey, Luke,” I say, with undertones of seduction that I hope fly over my mother’s head.

From my right, Mom gasps. Not the reaction I’d expected.

Luke looks surprised. Then thrilled. Then skeptical.

“You remember him?” my mom asks.

“Of course,” I say, throwing her a look that says I think she’s lost it.

“You do?” Luke asks. Now I’m furrowing my eyebrows at him, too. What is wrong with everyone?

“And you haven’t looked at your notes yet today?” Mom asks incredulously. I wish she’d leave us alone, because I can think of a better way to spend the few minutes we have before school.

“Is that coffee for me?” I ask Luke, arms outstretched. Then I answer my mom: “No, not yet. Why? Why are you acting so weird?”

She lets loose a silly, girlish giggle, and Luke and I can’t help but laugh with her. When we all compose ourselves, I ask, “What’s funny?” which sends my mom into hysterics once again.

Luke crosses the room, hands me my coffee, and sits next to me on the bed. He kisses my cheek and says softly, “You remember me.”

I think of Luke tomorrow; I remember him from next year.

“I get the feeling that I didn’t before,” I say, matching his low tone. Through her laughter, my mom excuses herself and leaves us alone.

“Nope,” Luke says, eyes bright. “But you do now, and that’s all that matters.”

“Well, let me catch up,” I say, grabbing the stack of notes off the bedside table. After I’ve reviewed them, my mood has changed.

“Luke, we need to talk.”

“Is this about yesterday?” he asks, looking hurt.

“Yes,” I say, thankful for the details. “It’s pretty serious.”

Luke tenses and shifts to face me. “You’re not breaking up with me, are you?”

“No,” I say with a little laugh, brushing his hair out of his eyes.

“Just go ahead,” Luke says glumly.

I take a deep breath, and slowly, carefully, I tell Luke the story of the memory that I know, from my notes, came back to me yesterday. I still remember it today, so I don’t need to look back at my notes to explain everything. I’m detailed but to the point, never wavering until the very end.

“And then I die?”

“Yes,” I say, my eyes welling up with tears. Luke and I will have a great relationship. We’ll talk about marriage, but he won’t get the chance to propose. Instead, he’ll die.

The color drains from Luke’s face, but he doesn’t cry with me. Instead, he’s still, pensive.

“Are you all right?” I ask after I’ve dried my tears.

“I don’t know,” Luke says, still immobile. He holds his coffee cup awkwardly by his left leg. I take it from him and set it on the table.

“I’m sorry for telling you.”

“No, don’t be,” he says. “I’d rather know.”

I’m not sure I feel the same way about my own end, but I don’t admit as much. Luke continues.

“I think knowing about it is better, because then maybe I can avoid it. We can avoid it together,” he says, with forced strength.

“I guess,” I say, looking into his eyes.

“No, seriously. Okay, yes, this is pretty intense. I’m a little… I don’t know. I can’t quite process it all right now. But don’t you think the advance warning gives me the advantage?”

“But, Luke, I—”

“No, really. You changed something with Page. You’ve changed other things, too. You can change this. It won’t happen,” he says with authority, as if he’s trying to convince himself. I guess that’s the best anyone can do with this information.

“Maybe you’re right,” I say calmly.

“I am right,” he says, his voice increasing in volume. “You’ll change your future. You’ll save me.”

“And what if I can’t?”

“Then we just won’t go down the alley. Trust me, it won’t happen.”

Luke hugs me tight and kisses me with such strength that I almost buy his story. But when he releases me, I see it flash across his eyes.

Fear.

Hoping to distract him, I offer my notes so that he can read up on yesterday’s events while I get ready for school. As I shower, I can’t help but wonder whether I did the right thing by telling him.

Then again, maybe he’s right.

Maybe knowing how to avoid bad situations is enough.

Reaching for my fluffy white towel hanging on the hook, I think one thought over and over again: Please, be enough.

44

Jamie looks at me in Spanish class without grimacing, but the rest of the day is bleak. I float through school in a fog, asking myself questions I can’t answer: Is my brother alive? Will Luke die the death I remember? Will I ever get to meet my father?