Chapter 5: The Decoy

Rhett's apartment was on the second floor of a yellow house with a sagging porch.

His two roommates were at an away scrimmage, and a pizza box sat open on the counter.

"Don't touch anything on the left side of the couch," he said. "It's alive."

"The couch is alive?"

"The cushion is. Sit on the right."

I sat on the right and put my laptop on my knees.

My hands were shaking, and I hid them under the keyboard.

I had said yes to this the night of the dinner, with Zara's email threat still burning in my chest.

If Zara found the author, the story would be traced to my account, and my account was linked to my school email.

The only way out was to make the story point somewhere else.

"Okay," I said. "We need chapter thirty-two to look like it's about you."

"That's the plan."

"The Captain needs a new scene. The rival needs to take over."

"Sinclair."

"Sinclair. The dark one. The one with the temper and the penalty minutes."

"The one who looks like me."

"The one who kind of looks like you," I corrected. "A little."

He dropped into the armchair across from me, elbows on his knees.

"Tell me what he does."

"He doesn't do anything yet. I need details."

"Like what?"

"Like what you do when you're nervous. How you tape your stick. What you eat before a game."

"Peanut butter on a banana, and I tape it left to right, two wraps at the heel."

"That's very specific."

"I'm a very specific person."

I typed it down, and then looked up and found him watching my hands.

Not my face. My hands.

"What?" I said.

"You type like you're mad at the keys."

"I'm not mad."

"You are a little. You do it when you're thinking."

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