Pete cleared his throat. “You’re in luck. That’s what knights in shining armor do. Helping is basically our bread and butter. What’s the trouble?”

“I need you to pick me up”—she gave him April’s address in Bowling Springs—“as soon as possible. I’ll explain when you get here.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Pete said. “Be there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means sit tight. I’m coming.”

She hung up, feeling better already. Pete could be annoying, but he was reliable and sweet. A distraction, too. Kind of like having a fluffy Pomeranian for company. If Pomeranians could drive and knew all the words to “Baby Got Back.”

He was there in less than half an hour, and her heart lifted again when she saw the ridiculous purple minivan swanning down the road. He leaned over to pop open the door for her, and she nearly sat on a bag of doughnuts in the passenger seat.

“Figured you hadn’t eaten,” he said. “There’s coffee, too, if you want it.” Two jumbo Styrofoam cups were straining against the cup holders.

Pete must have gotten sun yesterday, because his arms and the bridge of his nose were more deeply freckled. But the freckles looked good on him, like a dusting of stars. She was super aware of the fact that when she sat, her shorts cut hard into her thighs, and wished she had worn jeans instead. Even her knees looked fat. To conceal her embarrassment she looked down, fumbling with the lid of her coffee.

“You weren’t kidding about the knight-in-shining-armor thing,” she said.

He beamed at her. Actually beamed. His smile nearly blinded her. “So where to?”

She knew that there was no point in trying to go after the replicas. She wasn’t Sherlock Holmes, and there were no footprints to track. They had most likely left in the middle of the night and could have been anywhere. She needed to talk to Jake. He might have ideas about what to do next. Fortunately, he’d written down his address when he’d given her his aunt’s landline. At least the replicas hadn’t stolen her entire wallet. Small mercies.

“Here.” She fished out the piece of foil and handed it over to Pete. He raised his eyebrows.

“Is this a clue or something?” Pete said. “Because I think it was Sergeant Pepper in the pantry with an egg cozy.”

“Just drive, okay? I need to talk to my friend Jake,” she said. “He’s not picking up his phone.”

Instantly, Pete’s face changed. “When you said help, I didn’t think you needed a ride to your boyfriend’s,” he said, and although he put the car in drive, she could tell he was hurt.

“Jake isn’t my boyfriend. Trust me,” she said. “He’s—” She was about to say he was way out of her league, but she didn’t think this would make Pete feel any better. Especially since she was kind of starting to hope Pete might be in her league. “Look, he’s been helping me. It’s complicated. . . .” She trailed off.

Pete made a face, as if he wasn’t convinced. “So why couldn’t Prince Charming come and get you?”

“I told you. I can’t get in touch with him,” Gemma said, and Pete snorted. “Look, you’ve got it wrong. Jake’s dad was a big Haven freak. After he died, Jake kind of took over for him.”

“Haven?” Pete looked confused. “The place we heard about on the radio? The one that got blown up?”

“Yeah. That one.” Gemma took a deep breath. The GPS was directing them out of the subdivision now, speaking in its measured mechanical voice, and Gemma found herself unconsciously scanning the streets for April in her jogging clothes. She was seized by the sudden idea that once they turned onto the highway, that was it. She would never see April again. And she knew, in part, it had been her fault. She should have talked to April, trusted her sooner, let her in on the secret, explained. She turned back to Pete. “There’s a lot of stuff I haven’t told you. It’s going to sound crazy, okay? If I tell you, you’re going to think I’m bananas. You have to promise not to think that.”

“I swear,” Pete said. He didn’t seem upset anymore.

“Turn right on County Route 39,” said the voice of the GPS. Gemma looked once more for April, and the streets were totally empty. As if they were just waiting for something, or someone.

“It’s kind of a long story,” Gemma said. Her heart was elbowing up against her rib cage, like it was trying to force its way through them. How would she even begin?

Pete smiled, just a little. “You’ve got eighty-seven miles,” he said, reaching for the doughnuts. “So start talking.”

It was easy to talk to Pete. Gemma hadn’t expected him to be such a good listener, but he was. He didn’t interrupt with stupid questions or squawk in disbelief when she told him about stumbling across the replicas—literally stumbling—in the marshes. Only once did he interrupt, when she described finding the dead girl with her exact face. Her replica. And then he just said, “Jesus,” and then, “Go on.”

By the time she finished telling him everything—about the long slog back through the marshes, and the folder that Lyra had smuggled out of Haven, about transmissible spongiform encephalopathies; about waking up to discover the replicas missing with all her money; about Jake and his dad and the Haven Files and Angel Fire and her mission from God—they had reached Jake’s road.

Jake hadn’t been lying about his aunt’s house being rural. Route 12, on the outskirts of Little Waller, was a treacherous narrow dirt path studded with holes. On either side of the road, behind growth so riotous it looked like the trees were launching some kind of major offensive, prefab houses, little more than glorified trailers, sagged in the midday sun, doing their best to stay on their feet in the wilting heat. Gemma felt an unexpected rise of pity. No wonder Jake had been obsessing about his father’s death for years. She couldn’t imagine there was much else to do. This was a lonely place.