Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
My left eye cracks open, straining to locate the alarm clock. It glows red on the nightstand, displaying six a.m. I yawn, slapping my hand across the top to silence the insistent beeping.
I don't want to get out of bed. Because when I do, I’ll be Emma Fitzgerald. Who knows what version of her will greet the morning. Maybe she’ll be shy, avoiding connections – no friends mean no potential losses.
I take a deep breath and swing my legs over the side of the bed.
***
“Emma… Jacob,” Hank rumbles, carefully maneuvering his BMW into a parking space. “Stick to the story. No improvisations. Understand?”
It’s our story. The one that doesn’t change with each new town. If we deviate, we risk exposure – or at least, that’s Hank’s mantra. He believes the slightest crack in our cover will trigger relocation.
“Yes, Dad,” Thomas replies, his voice flat.
“Emma?” Hank cocks an eyebrow.
“Doesn’t it make more sense to call me Isla when we’re discussing WITSEC?” I challenge, forcing him to direct a glare at me. “Yes, it’s understood.”
“Good,” he nods curtly. “I’ll play the embarrassing father while you two embody rebellious teenagers.”
“We get it,” I assure him, rolling my eyes.
“This is our third time around—” Hank begins.
“We don’t need a refresher,” Thomas interjects.
“They relocated us because *you* were getting too close,” I correct him.
We enter the school hallway, a gauntlet of potential observers. My eyes widen with apprehension before returning to Hank.
“Have a good day,” Hank says, handing us our schedules. “And remember… you never know who’s listening.”
He leans in, his voice a low whisper. The intensity of his gaze unsettles me. We’ve had too many close calls in the past two years to dismiss his warnings. Thomas, however, seems less concerned.
“He’s a master of theatrics,” Thomas comments as I glance down at my schedule.
Biology with Mr. Faulkner.
“What do you have first?” I ask.
“Let’s see…” He checks his own schedule. “Bio with Faulkner.”
“Same here,” I sigh with relief.
“You know, at some point you’ll need to socialize with someone other than me,” Thomas begins, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I mean, I know I’m attractive as hell, and my charming personality—”
“Just shut up,” I beg.
“You need to learn how to interact,” Thomas finishes.
“I know how to interact,” I insist.
“You, my darling, have no concept of social interaction,” he declares.
“I am not antisocial,” I retort, folding my arms. “At the last school, I was a cheerleader with a group of friends.” We stop at our lockers. “Proves how little you know.”
A group of friends I had to abandon. They never received an explanation.
“Okay,” he nods as we manipulate our locker combinations, the codes etched onto our palms. “You’re not allowed to sit with me at lunch.”
“Good, I was getting sick of your face anyway,” I hiss as my locker door clicks open. I toss my backpack inside, grabbing my laptop and textbooks. Thomas and I slam our doors shut simultaneously. “Wait.”
I’m going to instantly earn a loner reputation. God, I hate people.
“Wait?” He raises an eyebrow as we walk toward our classroom.
“No, you know what…” I narrow my brows. “I’ll be fine.”
“Good,” he nods.
Suddenly, a group of girls passes us. Thomas locks eyes with one of them and smiles. I roll my eyes.
“Hey, I know that look,” I narrow my brows. “That’s the ‘hunting prey’ look.”
“Because that’s not creepy,” he retorts, turning his gaze to me.
“Please don’t break any hearts while we’re here,” I smirk.
“No promises,” he replies as we enter the bio room.
“You’re going to be so wasted by the end of the year,” I declare.
“Tipsy, maybe,” he corrects. “But not wasted.”
Thomas and I play a game. It’s called Sober, Tipsy, or Wasted. If you had a shot for every bad decision you’ve made, would you be sober, tipsy, or wasted?
Every time we’ve switched locations, the game resets. Thomas has been responsible for the last two moves and is officially deemed “wasted.”
When we walk into the classroom, we see a man we assume is Mr. Faulkner. He’s middle-aged, with salt-and-pepper hair and bright green eyes.
“Here we go,” I take a deep breath as we take a seat beside each other at the back.
“Hey, are you guys new?” A voice asks from beside me.
I glance to my right, finding a girl. She has blonde hair tied in a high ponytail, fair skin, thin lips, natural makeup, and hazel eyes.
God, I miss my hazel eyes. I didn’t realize I’d miss something so simple as my eye color, but I do.
*Don’t be awkward.*
“Yeah, we are actually,” Thomas smiles. “I’m Jacob, and this is my twin sister, Emma.”
I glance at Thomas, who offers me a reassuring look. I want her to believe our story. I need her to. Because if one person doubts our cover, we get relocated.
“Shut up,” she cries. “I’ve never met boy/girl twins before… is this your first day?”
“We just moved here from Indiana,” Thomas tells her.
“Why the big move?”
“Emma,” Thomas cocks an eyebrow.
This was him forcing me to socialize.
“Our dad is the new history teacher here,” I explain.
“Shut up! Mr. Fitzgerald is your dad?” Her eyes widen.
He hasn’t even taught a class yet. This period will be his first time teaching at this school. News travels fast.
“Have you heard of him?” I question.
“Sure,” she smiles. “All the girls have. He’s a hunk, after all.”
“That’s disturbing,” Thomas shoots her a disgusted look.
“I’m Laura, by the way,” she announces cheerfully as another student takes a seat beside her. “Oh, and this is Willow.”
Thomas and I both turn our eyes to Willow. She’s standoffish, with long, straight chocolate brown hair, chocolate eyes, olive skin, and large lips. She wears smoky eyeshadow.
“I apologize for my friend,” Willow says to Thomas and me. “She can come across as hyperactive, creepy, extra as fuck, bitch.”
“I’ve been on my best behavior, I swear,” she rolls her eyes. “This is Emma and Jacob.”
“Great, now stop bugging them,” Willow orders as Mr. Faulkner starts the class.
“Their dad is the hot new history teacher,” Laura tells her.
“Stop talking,” Willow rolls her eyes.
I can’t help but chuckle. I glance over at Thomas, who watches the girls’ interaction. He has that same predatory look on his face. Next time, I’ll ask our handler to place us in a town filled with less attractive girls. Maybe then we won’t get caught.
The last time we were moved was because Thomas’ picture appeared in the newspaper. He had a girl on each arm, lips pressed against his cheeks. Soon after, we discovered Ned was on our tail — and just like that, Samantha Donovan disappeared, and Emma Fitzgerald was born.