I leaned back against the seat and closed my eyes for half a second. The past waited there. It always did. Vaughn at fifteen, standing in my clothes with my backpack over his shoulder, smiling while our father shouted my name from the study. Vaughn at seventeen, telling a girl he was me because she had rejected him and smiled at me instead. Vaughn at nineteen, wearing my team jacket at a party while I sat in a hotel room under curfew, then laughing when I was punished for leaving camp.
My brother had always known that a face could be a key.
He had simply grown better at choosing doors.
“Did you know he could imitate you that convincingly?” Isla asked.
I opened my eyes.
“Yes.”
Her face went still.
“He could do my voice,” I said. “My walk. My posture. The way I held my shoulders. The
