Chapter 1

The morning of my SATs, my phone buzzed.

A text from an unknown number.

"Ella, it's Liam. Don't take the test. I'll explain. Don't tell Mom."

My breath caught.

Liam.

My older brother, Liam.

He vanished three years ago, right after his own SATs.

The police said runaway, but I never believed it.

He wouldn't leave me.

Not after his promise, our secret "Phoenix Plan" for a fresh start if things ever got too much.

He was my confidant, my protector.

I tried calling the number.

A flat, automated voice said it was disconnected.

Untraceable.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

Liam. Alive.

The phone flashed again.

Same number.

"Seriously, Ella. Not a word to her."

Her. Meaning Sarah, the woman I called Mom.

The bedroom door creaked open.

Sarah stood there, a bright, forced smile on her face.

"Ella, sweetie, you ready? Big day!"

I shoved my phone under my pillow, my hand shaking.

"Almost," I managed, my voice thin.

She fussed with my hair, her touch too light, too hesitant.

Not like my real mom' s firm, sometimes annoying, pats.

"You'll do great, I just know it," Sarah said, her eyes a little too wide.

She always seemed to be performing, ever since she and Mark, my supposed father, had shown up a few months after Liam disappeared, claiming to be our parents, altered by grief and some vague "treatment" they'd undergone.

My real parents, with their crushing expectations, had been a source of pressure for Liam. These new ones were just...off.

I mumbled something about needing a moment.

She nodded, still smiling that brittle smile, and left, saying, "Don't be long, Mark's waiting with the car."

I grabbed my phone.

Liam.

What was happening?

I looked at my reflection in the dresser mirror.

Pale, scared.

Then I saw Sarah walking past my open door in the hallway reflection.

She adjusted her blouse.

A thin, white line peeked out from her collar on the left side.

A scar.

I froze.

My real mother had a scar from a thyroid surgery, a tiny, faded line.

But it was on the right side of her neck.

I knew that scar. I' d traced it with my finger as a child.

This scar on Sarah, the one in the mirror, was on the left.

My blood ran cold.

She came back to my doorway. "Ella? Everything okay?"

Her voice was sweet, concerned.

"Who are you?" The words slipped out, barely a whisper.

Sarah's smile faltered, then hardened.

"What did you say, Ella? Don't be silly. We need to go."

"Your scar," I said, louder this time, my voice trembling. "It's on the wrong side."

Her eyes narrowed. "Don't start this again, Ella. Your imagination. Dr. Miller warned us you might get confused under stress."

Dr. Miller. The psychiatrist they' d made me see after Liam left, who said I had trauma-induced anxieties.

"It's not my imagination," I insisted.

"Enough!" Her voice was sharp now, the sweetness gone. "Get your things. You are taking that test."

I knew then, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, she wasn't my mother.

This woman was an impostor.

And she was trying to force me to the SATs.

Just like Liam, before he disappeared.

I took a deep breath, feigning defeat. "Okay. Okay, Mom. I'm sorry. Just pre-test jitters."

Her expression softened slightly, but her eyes remained wary.

"Good girl. Now hurry."

I nodded, grabbing my backpack.

Before I slung it over my shoulder, I slipped a small, worn photograph from my desk drawer into my pocket.

A real photo. Me and Liam, grinning, his arm around me.

The real Liam.

Downstairs, "Mark" was waiting by the door, jangling car keys.

"Ready, champ?" he boomed, a little too loud, a little too cheerful.

He clapped me on the shoulder. His hand felt wrong, heavy.

My real dad was leaner, his touch lighter.

I looked at Mark's wrist.

He was wearing a silver watch, a gift from my real grandmother to my real father.

But he wore it on his right wrist.

My dad was left-handed. He always wore his watch on his left wrist. Always.

I felt a wave of dizziness.

Two of them. Both impostors.

"Just a bit nervous, Dad," I said, forcing a smile.

Mark chuckled. "Nothing to it. You'll ace it." He winked.

Sarah came up behind me, placing her hands on my shoulders, steering me towards the door.

"Let's go. We don't want to be late."

Their movements were too smooth, too coordinated.

Like they were puppets.

They weren't just off. They were something else. Something dangerous.

And they wanted me at those SATs.

Why?