Then it hits me. Jackson might not even be here. He’s probably out somewhere with his parents. Would have been nice if I’d thought of that before I climbed the tree.

I’m about to climb down again when a boy walks along the hall, past the open sewing-room door. My heart stops, then hammers into double time. Jackson.

He’s wearing black, wraparound sunglasses, a pair of dark blue plaid, flannel pajama bottoms that ride low on his hips, and nothing else. His skin is smooth over taut muscle, his abdomen ridged, his arms defined. I give myself a second to just appreciate the view.

He has a towel in one hand and he pauses in the hallway as he roughs his damp hair with it. Muscles shift beneath smooth skin. He turns, and I catch sight of the scars on his left upper arm and shoulder, a physical reminder of the Drau that somehow managed to escape the game and follow Jackson to the real world the day Lizzie died.

That’s why I need the Committee to be the good guys.

Because the Drau are bad. Really, really bad. And if one of them escaped the confines of the game, circumvented the parameters the Committee has somehow created, then there’s a chance all of them could get through.

That’s the whole point of the game. To keep them from getting through.

Jackson rolls his shoulders and drops his arms so the end of the towel trails on the floor. He stands with head bowed, like the weight of the universe bears down on him.

I want to lay my hand between his shoulder blades, sooth him with a touch, remind him he isn’t in this alone. I want to wrap my arms around him and hold him the way he held me when I needed it most.

I will him to turn. Maybe I make a sound.

Slowly, slowly, he pivots to face the window.

For endless seconds, he does nothing. Nothing at all. No expression. No movement. It’s like the instant is frozen in time.

My breath rushes out. There’s a ringing in my ears. My entire focus is on Jackson.

His lips shape my name.

My pulse trips and starts.

How many times have I dreamed that Mom isn’t dead, that she’s back, alive, here? How many times have I dreamed about Sofu and Gram?

This isn’t just a dream. Jackson’s here.

He came back.

He’s alive.

It isn’t until my lungs start screaming that I realize I’m holding my breath. I exhale in a rush.

In a second he’s at the window, yanking it open, standing there with his fists curled so tight over the windowsill, his knuckles are white. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t speak. His überdark shades hide his eyes, hide his thoughts. Nervousness writhes in my chest like a downed electrical wire.

“You’re not supposed to be here.” The words are a low rasp.

Not what I expected him to say. I can’t read his tone. There is no tone. No inflection. I shake my head, icy doubt freezing my organs, stealing my words.

He isn’t happy to see me. He doesn’t want me here. Something’s changed. Something’s wrong.

Emotion overload. I can’t deal with this after the roller coaster I’ve been riding since Detroit. I need to get away.

My instinct is to shimmy down the tree and run. Get away. Leave him far, far behind.

My hands won’t obey my thoughts. Instead of letting go, they curl tighter around the branch.

He told me he loved me.

But he doesn’t.

He’s back to being the boy I can’t read, the one who acts like an asshole, a wall ten feet thick between him and everyone else. Including me.

Jackson ducks through the window, clambering out onto another branch, the red and gold autumn leaves shaking free and fluttering down, down. I watch them go because I can’t bear to watch him. Can’t bear to look at his flat expression.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, sounding anything but welcoming.

“Sitting in a tree.” My chin kicks up a notch. “I knocked and rang the bell. No one answered.”

“So you climbed a tree?” His brows lift above the frame of his glasses. “I didn’t hear your knock or the bell. I was in the shower. Answer the question.”

“Yeah, I climbed a tree.”

“Not that question,” he says. One corner of his mouth quirks in the barest hint of the smile. He once told me, There hasn’t been much that makes me smile in a very long time. But you do. So thank you for that.

Where’s that boy now?

I look at the ground, wondering if I can make it in a single leap without breaking a bone. “Back to being an asshole, Jackson?”

“I never stopped. I told you, Miki. I’m not a good guy.”

No shit. He’s the guy who sold me into the game.

And saved my life.

And held me when I needed him.

My feelings for him aren’t confused: I told him I love him, and that’s the truth.

It’s the certainty that loving him is good for me that I’m not sold on.

The branch I’m on dips as his weight adds to mine. I don’t look at him but I know he’s there, right in front of me, way too close. I smell a hint of citrus shaving cream and freshly showered, warm male skin. It makes me want to bury my face in his neck and just breathe. But we’re as far from that as Rochester is from Australia.

He sits there, saying nothing, the inches between us stretching like miles.

This is not the reunion I imagined.

“Look at me.” An order. Typical Jackson.

I raise my chin and glare at him, seeing little reflections of myself in the dark lenses that hide his eyes. He leans closer and the little reflections distort. I refuse to back away. I won’t give him that.