“I’ll talk to your dad,” she said. “But you know how he is. He’s furious. You lied to us, Gemma.”

How many times have you lied to me? Gemma nearly said. But she swallowed the words back. She said instead, “You didn’t give me much choice.”

To her surprise, her mother laughed. But it was the saddest laugh ever, like she really wanted to cry. “We’re just trying to keep you safe, Gem,” she said. “That’s all we ever wanted.”

“I’m safe,” she said. “I’m fine.”

When Kristina spoke again, her voice was softer. Probably just the thought of a pill working its way through her bloodstream had calmed her. “I expect you to call me first thing in the morning.”

“I will,” Gem said. “Just tell Dad not to worry.”

Kristina hesitated. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Gemma hung up. She was briefly euphoric, almost dizzy, but the feeling was short-lived. She’d gotten her mom only temporarily off her back. If her dad insisted on driving straight to April’s house . . . if he discovered she wasn’t there . . .

But if everything went as planned, she could make it to April’s by morning, when her dad was still thirty thousand feet over the Atlantic. If everything went as planned, she might have all the answers she needed tonight.

And then what? What did it matter, really?

She wasn’t sure. But she sensed—no, she knew—that there was in Haven a reason for her dad’s constant, simmering anger; for the pills her mom measured out day by day; for the vast silence that filled her house and the way she caught her parents looking at her sometimes, as if she were a stranger.

She had to know why.

Her phone pinged. She assumed it would be her mom, calling back, but saw she had a new message from Pete: a GIF of a cartoon cowboy wrangling an alligator.

She tried watching TV but couldn’t get anything but a blinking error message. She was nervous about what they were about to attempt, which was more dangerous than anything she’d ever even considered—she’d once nearly crapped herself cutting gym class to hang out with April like badasses behind the tennis courts. She wished she were the kind of girl who, when nervous, lost her appetite. Instead she made four trips to the vending machine, which contained only a few warm sodas, some Kit Kats, cardboard-tasting chips, and a bag of ancient Sour Patch Kids, shriveled and dry as discarded husks of molted cicadas.

She searched for more news about what had happened at Haven, refreshing the few local news sites that were covering it and toggling back and forth between individual blogs and conspiracy sites. The explosion had renewed public interest in Haven. She found a couple of news sites that referenced the controversy from several years ago, in which Haven was listed as one of the research institutes that had illegally purchased human tissue for research, including embryonic and stem cells. She knew embryonic cells were used for medical research. It fit Jake’s theory. Fine & Ives had even released a statement, a bland PR document about a sudden fire at one of their research institutes. Every article had attracted dozens of comments, many of them nonsensical or filled with curses and hysterical references to escaped biological agents.

Around nine she saw references on several sites to a terrorist attack, by an individual who supposedly believed she was acting on God’s commandment and had somehow managed to infiltrate the island. But there was frustratingly little information about the attack, and after only twenty minutes, many of the individual story links had been disabled or taken down. She was halfway through an article about the possibility that the person responsible had managed to stow away on the ferry that collected the waste from Haven twice a week when the whole page just blinked and then went dark, as if someone had pulled a curtain over her screen. She reloaded the page several times but kept getting the same 404 error.

“What the hell?” She jabbed her screen with a finger, trying to figure out how a webpage could just disappear while she was looking at it. There was a knock at the door and she jumped. She’d lost track of time completely. It was eleven o’clock already.

Jake had changed into a black T-shirt, dark jeans, and black Vans. When Gemma opened the door, she thought he looked like the lead singer in some indie band April might have been obsessed with. She wished temporarily she’d done something with her hair—more delusion. As if a great hairstyle would distract him from the thirty extra pounds she was packing.

He came into the room without saying hello and sat down on the bed.

“Did you hear?” he said. When he shoved a hand through his hair, it resettled right away. Soft, then. Of course. “The cops traced the explosion.”

She closed the door and leaned against it. It occurred to her that this was exactly what she’d sworn to April she wouldn’t do—meet a stranger in a seedy motel room. Maybe she’d sit down next to him and he’d try and touch her thigh or force his tongue down her throat. Then again, she wouldn’t mind. If anyone was in danger of getting sexually harassed, it was probably him.

Jake pulled out a laptop from his backpack. “This came into my in-box an hour ago.” He pivoted his computer screen around. “When my dad died, I couldn’t bring myself to shut down the Haven Files admin on his website, so messages get routed to my in-box.” She joined him on the bed, moving stiffly, hoping he wouldn’t notice. She could smell his soap, and when he shifted the laptop onto her lap, his fingers grazed her thigh.

It was the first time a guy had ever touched her. And even though it was accidental, she got a small thrill.