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it was accidental and this feels like cheating on him.
    What is wrong with me? Why am I even thinking about stupid stuff like boys when Charlie has been kidnapped?! I struggle out of Evan’s arms and stand up, even though he’s still got hold of my hand.
    “Hey,” he says. “It’s going to be all right. We’ll find Charlie. I swear to you.”
    “There’s no ‘we’ about this,” I tell him. “I have to do this alone. They said no cops. No Interpol. No nothing. Or they will hurt my brother. Get it?”
    “I’m not a cop. I’m not Interpol—” He breaks off as I snort.
    “Last time I checked, GI stood for Generation Interpol, Evan! So I’ve probably endangered Charlie’s life by talking to you. They’re probably watching—”
    “GI doesn’t officially exist, Kari. They can’t know about it. So they saw me come home. Big deal. They think we live as . . . as brother and sister.”
    I think about this for a moment. “But they must know Rebecca is Interpol.”
    He shrugs. “Maybe. So we won’t call her. We’ll handle this on our own. But I am with you on this. I won’t let you go by yourself.”
    “You’re not my boss, Evan. You have no way of stopping me.” I toss a hairbrush and my toothbrush into the duffel bag and zip it closed with finality.
    “Don’t make me call the police, Kari,” he says quietly.
    “You’ll get Charlie killed!” My voice rises on a note of hysteria.
    “Then don’t make me do it.” Evan’s face is like granite. Unyielding.
    “You asshole . I can’t believe you’re threatening me.”
    He sighs. “It’s only because I care. Not just about Charlie, but about you. Please, Kari. Let me help.”
    Can I risk it? Working with him? I don’t have a lot of time to decide. It’s yes or no. Life or death. I close my eyes and pray fervently that I’m making the right call. I open them and stare daggers at Evan. “Swear to me on the soul of your mother that you won’t tell anyone, especially not Rebecca.”
    He nods. “I swear.”
    “Fine. Get packed. We’re leaving in five minutes.”
    Evan sprints for the stairs. “Think about something while I get my things together. Consider telling your parents.”
    My mouth drops open. “Are you high? Are you nuts? Or are you just stupid?”
    “No,” he calls from the landing above.
    “You’re all three!” I follow him up to the attic while he rummages around and throws things into—what else?—a Prada weekender. Evan Kincaid is the only seventeen-year-old guy I know who’d own such a thing.
    His room is nicely decorated, too, with black-and-white photographs that he’s taken himself and a couple of framed art posters: Magritte and Picasso. The bedding is stark white and ridiculously expensive—I can’t remember the name of the designer and don’t care, but it’s a Name. Evan’s dresser is silver and black, and on top is a photo of his parents and a black leather box where he keeps watches and rings. The guy has more jewelry than I do, of course.
    “Think about it, Kari.”
    “No. My parents are liars and traitors. They’re despicable.”
    “Maybe. But they love Charlie—and they’re very good at what they do.”
    “I will never speak to them again as long as I live.”
    “Fine. Don’t. Send them an e-mail.”
    “That’s traceable.”
    “Do it from an Internet café.”
    “I hate them!”
    “Understandable. Yet you could use their help. So could Charlie.”
    I glare at Evan, who shrugs and continues his packing.
    “They’re not the authorities,” he says in a mild tone.
    I don’t reply.
    “Kari?”
    “Drop it, Evan! I wouldn’t even know how to get in touch with them if I wanted to, and I don’t.”
    Evan walks over and puts his hand on my shoulder again. The heat of it burns through my thin sweater. “Remember the envelope taped to the back of the painting you burned?”
    I hesitate, then nod. I set a family portrait on fire after I found out about my parents. There was some kind of