“As much as I’d love to stay here all day—maybe even forever—we have things to do,” I said firmly.

“I don’t disagree.”

“You are terrible,” I said, laughing. “We need to get going!”

His hands settled on my hips and suddenly he flipped me around until I was beneath him again, the mattress bouncing. He kissed me hotly and I gave in, throwing my arms over his neck, hands digging into his strong shoulders. His fingers brushed the skin of my waist beneath my shirt. We kissed for what felt like hours, until my lips were swollen and tender, and his shoulders had turned red beneath my grip. Yet again, we came to that familiar stalemate, where we waited for one of us to make the first move to back off for good. This time, it was him. The cloudiness in my senses began to fade and reality came crashing back down. For some time, I lay against the bed beneath Will, his fingers twining through my hair and my own curling around his shirt, folding my body against his like I was trying to climb into his skin to get that much closer to him. But the peaceful dream had to end sometime and we had a mission to complete.

Once we were all ready to go, we navigated the sprawling bed-and-breakfast out to the parking lot where the rental car was parked. The hotel dated back to the Colonial period and had that classic East Coast charm to it. I really wanted to explore its many wings and the property it sat on, but we had stuff to do first. We found the post office easily, but as we walked inside and the local elderlies glared at Will’s tattoos spiraling out from under his T-shirt, I had severe doubts that we would find much information here.

I scanned the wall of gray metal mailbox doors and found box 184. At least we knew that this particular box existed. Question was, did it belong to the mysterious Ethan Stone?

There was an older woman working the single register behind the counter, wearing a pink cardigan with kittens over a pink shirt. She glared at me from beneath her halo of frizzy gray hair. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah,” I began, unsure of how to work this. “Could you tell me who rents box 184?”

“No,” she replied rather tersely. “That would be against federal law.”

I bit my lip and thought hard. “Well, does it get used often? As in, recently and still in use?”

“Yes, mail comes in and out,” she grumbled. “It’s a P.O. box. That’s what happens.”

The kittens on her pink-on-pink ensemble weren’t very intimidating, despite the woman’s harshness. “Thanks for your help,” I told her smugly.

Outside the building, we stood on the sidewalk. Will didn’t seem too disappointed. “At least we know that the box is still active.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But we’ll never find out who’s using it. So…if I were a bored, small-town local kid and there was possibly a gazillionaire living in a gigantic house around here, possibly a psychic or something else supernatural, meaning he possibly doesn’t chill with regular people, meaning he’s possibly a recluse…”

“How can you say all of that in one breath?”

“Shut up. I’m thinking,” I said. “This guy is probably the only cool thing to talk about around here, except for the horse shows advertised everywhere. People really like horses in Saugerties, I guess. Anyway, Ethan Stone would probably be like this town’s Boo Radley, you know?”

“The who?”

“Meaning, he’d be an urban legend, only he really is something supernatural,” I said. “Meaning, while the adults in town might glare at us, the local kids would love to spook tourists with the story.”

“But why?” Will looked at me a bit cross-eyed. “I don’t understand why they would care.”

“That’s because you’re a replicant. Now let’s go.”

I took his hand and dragged him down the street. This part of Saugerties was like a postcard, seriously. It was creepily quaint. We walked down the picturesque street until I spotted a local ice cream shop, its benches out front packed with teenagers. Jackpot.

I hauled Will up to the window to order. I figured we ought to blend in with everyone—and I’d get an ice cream out of this as well. After I got my regular cookie dough, I made Will order something. He got a small root beer float, of course, and then we sat at a bench with another couple. The girl smiled politely at us and the boy gave Will a nod of manly solidarity.

“Nice tats,” the boy said. “Get them done in the city?”

“New York City?” Will replied. “No, in Rome.”

“Interesting style and the symbols are really cool. I hear the Italian tattooists are the best.”

“She isn’t Italian, but she’s amazing.”

I beamed and took a bite of my ice cream. I happened to have been the not-Italian, “amazing” artist of his tattoos five hundred years ago, when he became my Guardian.

“Are you guys from around here?” the girl, a cute, curvy blond, asked.

“No,” I replied. “I’m from Michigan and he was born in Scotland.”

“Wow,” she said. “Both of you came a long way. Are you on vacation?”

“Pretty much. You guys live here?”

“Yeah,” the boy said. “Born and raised, both of us. I’m Scott. This is Leah.”

“Ellie and Will,” I said, and gestured to him beside me. “So, you guys probably know all the cool stuff to check out. You know, the stuff that isn’t advertised every five feet.”