The Girl Who Wasn't by Heather Hildenbrand

up short. Terror grips me. Gus is at my elbow
in an instant, tugging me back a step.
    When I catch sight of the girl, an
instant of recognition sweeps over me. She reminds me of Lonnie,
the way she moves, the way she carries herself with utter
confidence. But then I focus on her features and the resemblance
dissolves. Her hair, the freckles on her cheeks—it is not like
Lonnie at all.
    “ Hi there,” the girl says
with a bright smile. “You’re Raven Rogen, right?” Her attention
shifts from me to Gus to Titus and back again. She pushes on
without waiting for confirmation. “My cousin lives in this building
and I heard you might come tonight. I would just love to get your
autograph and maybe your picture. I mean, I follow your fundraising
projects. That orphanage rebuild you did? Amazing. I am such a huge
fan. Would you mind signing this for me?”
    She shoves a pen and paper at me
expectantly. The boy she is with hangs back. His hands are stuffed
into his pockets and he is staring at some spot on the wall. Gus
wanders away, clearly not considering the young couple a threat.
Titus has already pushed the button for the elevator. I look to him
for direction but he isn’t paying attention any longer.
    When I look back at the girl, she is
still smiling and waiting. On impulse, I grab the pen and scribble
Raven Rogen on the paper and shove it back at her. As if taking a
cue, the boy straightens and lifts a small camera. The girl wraps
an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close, and the camera
clicks. It’s over before I can even pose.
    “ Thank you so much,” she
gushes, folding the paper carefully around my name.
    I try for haughty or at least impatient
when I say, “No problem,” and walk away.
    Across the lobby, the elevator dings,
and I hurry to catch it. Gus holds the door while Titus waits
inside, his foot tapping. Once inside, I turn around and look for
the two teens but the lobby is empty. They are already
gone.
    The elevator ride is silent. I focus on
who I am—her, not me—and when the doors open I smile widely,
donning the mask.
    The first thing I notice is the music.
I cannot see where it comes from but it is floaty and wistful in a
way that makes my heart ache. Music in Twig City is rare, mostly
children’s songs and lullabies. Nothing like this.
    I wander toward the sound, smiling and
nodding at men and women in dark suits who do the same for me. No
one approaches and I have the sense this is more Titus’s crowd than
mine. No one here is my age. Some I recognize from the albums,
which makes me think of Linc. I wonder if he’s here.
    I am disappointed to realize after two
laps around the apartment that the music is only being poured in
through overhead speakers. Instead of turning back, I choose an
empty hallway, taking in the sight of the expensive art mixed among
fancy molding. Muted conversations float up from the party I’ve
left behind. It’s an almost enjoyable atmosphere, being here but
being apart somehow. The doors I pass are mostly closed but a few
are cracked, inviting those who seek privacy. I am curious to find
out what goes on in those rooms but too scared at what I’d find if
I looked.
    Female laughter bubbles out of a room
as I pass, light and airy and Authentic. Before I can turn toward
the sound, someone grabs me from behind. I spin quickly, terror and
surprise mingling. Any noise I could’ve made sticks in my throat at
the sight of Linc. He is dressed in black slacks and a pressed
white shirt. It is more formal than yesterday’s ensemble of
corduroy and cotton. I suppose he is trying to blend in.
    “ What are you doing back
here?” he demands.
    “ I was … looking for the
music,” I say. He is standing close enough that I catch the scent
of something man-made, some sort of cologne on him. Mixed with the
outdoorsy smell that seems to be his signature, it distracts me. My
face heats when I realize he’s noticed my reaction.
    He drops my elbow. “It’s not safe to
wander