It wasn’t jet lag. She was sure of that. There was nothing wrong with her eyes. Or his. They were azure beacons in a face that was just as shocked as hers. Their eyes locked, and for that moment nothing in the world could break their connection.

A flood of memories washed over her. Wilderness Adventure, the outdoor camping trip where they’d met. A boy with deep blue eyes and blond hair streaked with gold from the sun. A stream, promising cool refreshment, where he’d whipped off his T-shirt and jumped into the water—but not before revealing the crescent-moon birthmark on his right shoulder blade. A mark identical to the one on Amy’s back.

She rose on unsteady feet, wondering why everyone at the café wasn’t looking at her. Couldn’t they hear her pounding heart? She could hear Andy’s.…

His eyes drew her toward him. Then without warning, he broke the connection. He tossed some coins on the table, grabbed a notebook that was lying there, and hurried off.

“Andy!” Amy cried out, but all she could see was the resolute set of his shoulders as he moved swiftly to the street. “I’m going for a walk,” she murmured, not sure if Monica heard her. She didn’t care, either. There was only one thing on her mind—catching up with Andy.

He was already at the end of the street, waiting for the light to change so he could cross the intersecting boulevard. Amy took off, and as the light turned green, it required all her willpower not to exceed normal human running speed. Even so, she knew people were looking at her. Running along busy streets wasn’t a common activity in Paris.

And it was even less common on the street Andy turned into. It was lined with covered stalls displaying everything from fish to fruit. She was so dazzled by the colors of the vegetables, the strong smells of the cheeses, that for a second she lost sight of Andy, way down at the end of the market.

But there he was, edging past a group of woman clustered around a stall overflowing with bananas. She hurried after him. “Andy!” she called again. She saw him pause, for what must have been only a hundredth of a second. Then he continued moving, faster now.

Amy ran, dodging the shoppers and trying not to crash into any stands. She was gaining on him. But someone at the banana stall must have sampled the goods. Amy slipped on a banana peel and fell.

A chorus of voices rang out, all asking in French if she was okay. She managed to answer, “Yes, I mean oui,” and got through the mob just in time to see Andy disappear down some stairs under a sign that read MÉTROPOLITAIN. That had to be the Métro, she thought. The Paris subway system. She raced down the steps after him and reached the bottom just as he put a ticket into a slot and passed through a turnstile.

Amy didn’t have any Métro tickets, and she wasn’t about to wait in line to purchase any. Not right now, anyway. Running to the turnstile, she was getting ready to hoist herself over when a harsh voice shouted, “Arrêtez!” She knew what that word meant. Stop. And she didn’t have the opportunity to disobey the command. Two large, strong hands were on her shoulders, pulling her away from the turnstile.

It was a police officer. She considered trying to break free from his grasp and making a dash for the train she heard pulling into the station. But it was useless. The man’s grip was strong, and even if she could free herself, he’d come after her, maybe with a weapon. She had no idea how strict the French were about fare-beaters. Besides, it probably wasn’t a great idea to break a law in a foreign country.

The policeman spoke sternly, and it wasn’t hard to understand that he was scolding her. Speaking slowly and carefully in French, she told him she was a tourist, adding, “Je ne sais pas comment voyager dans le Métro”—she didn’t know how to travel on the subway.

Either she sounded very honest or very stupid, but in any case the policeman let her go with instructions for buying Métro tickets. She didn’t bother to get any, though. By now, Andy had to be long gone.

But why had he run from her in the first place? The answer was obvious. He didn’t want to see her. He hated her for what she’d done to him, back at Wilderness Adventure.

They had been fleeing the camp when she spotted Mr. Devon, the mysterious man who kept turning up in her life at unexpected moments. He knew all about her being a clone, and he seemed to be watching out for her safety. He was on her side, protecting her from the organization. Or so she had believed.

Andy had disagreed. He called the man Mr. Devil and claimed that Mr. Devon was in cahoots with the organization. Amy had difficulty believing this, especially when Mr. Devon turned up dead. Murdered, actually. And everything had pointed to Andy as the killer. So she’d called the cops, and Andy had been taken away.

Later, she had come to realize that she’d been wrong about Andy. But it was too late. He had escaped from jail and disappeared from her life.

Yes, he had good reason to hate her, to distrust her. That had to be why he’d run from her. Unless …

The possibility hit her like a kick in the head. Unless the person she’d run after wasn’t Andy. At least, not the Andy she knew, Andy Denker. After all, like her, he was a clone. There were other Amys in the world. There had to be other Andys, too. The person she saw running down into the subway could have been a replica, someone who’d never seen Amy before. And when Amy came after him, running and yelling, he could have been scared, thinking she was some kind of lunatic.

This was a definite possibility. But then why would he have been staring at her at the café? He wouldn’t have known who she was. And would she have felt those intense emotions, that sense of connection, if he had been anyone but Andy Denker?

She had to find him. Closing her eyes, she searched her memory for a clue, something that might lead her to him. The notebook he’d grabbed when he took off had a label on it. She concentrated as hard as she could, dredging up every detail of the spiral pad, the green cover, the shreds in the binding where he must have torn out some pages, the faint stamp on the front of the notebook … She concentrated harder. Two words had been on the label. She drew her breath in sharply.

Lycée Internationale. She knew what a lycée was—the French version of a high school. Maybe he was a student there. As soon as she got back to the hotel, she’d ask Madame Anselme for a phone directory.

First, though, she had to go back to Café Chocolat. Monica was probably a basket case by now, thinking Amy was lost somewhere in Paris. For all Amy knew, there could be an entire police force out searching for her.

But Monica hadn’t freaked out at all. She was still sitting at the same table, in the same position, with the same companion. When Amy joined them, Monica smiled vaguely as if Amy had only disappeared for seconds to use the rest room. And Christophe was still coming on to her with his fancy talk.

“You would do me such a great honor if you would join me this evening,” he was telling Monica. “We can go to a fine restaurant, or perhaps to the Tuileries, where we can stroll in the garden.”

Say yes, Amy ordered mentally. Getting rid of Monica for the evening meant she could start searching for the Lycée Internationale. Maybe Christophe would turn out to be a big plus. He was definitely an opportunist, but he was also someone who could distract Monica so that Amy could have more time on her own.

But Monica came back down to earth. “I’m sorry,” she told Christophe with clear reluctance. “I’m responsible for Amy. I can’t leave her alone, not on her first night in Paris.”

“Of course not,” Christophe said smoothly. “I am inviting the two of you! What would you like to do on your first night in Paris, Amy?”

She had an inspiration. “I want to go to the ballet,” she said. “Le Ballet de Jeunesse. They’re performing tonight.” She looked in the magazine she’d left on the table. “ ‘Opéra Garnier,’ ” she read. “Do you know where that is?”

“But of course!” Christophe said. “We shall go to the ballet. If that is agreeable to you, Monique?”

“Her name is Monica,” Amy reminded him.

“Ah yes, but a woman of such sophistication deserves a French name,” Christophe replied.

Amy looked at Monica and made a face. But Monica had eyes only for Christophe.

It didn’t matter. At least Amy had tonight to look forward to. And this time, she would find the dancing Amy.