But Molly knows how to stare. Her mom taught her how before she died in that accident.
Molly agrees though she’s scared. If she wins, she gets to stay on Clock Island. If she loses, she has to go back to the orphanage. She has to win.
They play the game.
Molly tries not to cry as she thinks of her mother teaching her to stare. It’s hard to play through her tears, but she does it because she likes this Mastermind guy. He seems sort of scary, but really, all he does is stand in shadows—weird—and grant wishes to kids. And it is a big house for one person. Well, one person and Jolene, the saber-toothed ferret. If the guy goes around granting kids’ wishes, he must like kids. He’s not going around locking them in the washing machine and turning it on the spin cycle, right?
She makes herself focus on the game and play even though it feels like her mom is standing right behind her, and if she looks over her shoulder, she’ll see her mom. She wants to see her mom again, but if she looks back, she’ll lose the game. She can’t look back. She has to look forward. If she keeps her eyes on the Mastermind—well, on the shadow that’s staring at her—she might get to have a family again. A new family. A different family. But a good family—just her and the Mastermind and Jolene.
Finally, the shadow blinks. She didn’t know shadows could blink, but this one did.
On page 129, Molly shouts, “I win!”
On page 130, it says this and only this:
The Mastermind had let Molly win.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Did we win?” Christopher asked.
No. They hadn’t won.
Lucy’s heart was on the floor. She didn’t know what to say. Ms. Hyde’s timer had stopped less than one second before Lucy had shouted the answer. They’d lost the chance to be together over one single second.
“Hold on, baby,” Lucy told Christopher. “Just…need a minute here.” She was trying to sound okay, put together, but she was falling apart trying to understand how she’d come so close and still lost.
“Thank you all for playing,” Ms. Hyde said. She turned and gave Jack a pointed look. “It seems we do not have a winner.”
“I’m so sorry, kids,” Jack said. “I really hoped one of you would win.”
He reached into the pocket of his rumpled navy-blue trousers and pulled out a key. “The book is in a bank safe-deposit box,” Jack told Ms. Hyde, laying it in her hand. “I’ll get you the information, but that is the key to the box.”
She wrapped her fingers tight around the small silver key. “On behalf of the publisher, thank you, Jack.” She looked at the contestants and was decent enough to look almost apologetic. “I know you all wanted to win this contest very much, so I’m certain you’re all feeling some disappointment. Each of you will receive signed first edition copies of the book for your own collections. Thank you for being a part of one of the better accidental marketing campaigns in the history of children’s literature.”
“Again,” Jack said, “I wish it could have been otherwise. I will do my best to make it up to you.”
Andre was the first to smile. “No hard feelings, Jack.” He walked over and held out his hand. “It was just so damn good to see you again. I’ll be telling this story for years.”
Jack hugged Andre, who had already ended his call.
“Lucy?” Christopher said. “What’s going on?”
“Sorry, sweetheart,” Lucy said, moving her hand away from the phone speaker. “They were talking to us about something.”
“Did you win? Did you get the prize?”
“Um…well, it was—” Lucy began. She thought she might throw up she was shaking so hard.
Hugo held out his hand. “Let me talk to him.”
“What?” Lucy said.
“Please?”
With a trembling voice, Lucy said, “Christopher, someone here wants to talk to you. His name is Hugo Reese, and he does all those cool paintings in the Clock Island books.”
“Really?” Christopher said. “Like the map and the puzzle and the train?”
“He did all those. And he wants to say hi. So here he is. Hugo?”
She gave the phone to Hugo, who put it to his ear.
“Christopher? This is Hugo. I’m a friend of Lucy’s.”
She sat back in the chair, silent and in shock, half-listening as Hugo introduced himself to Christopher. What could he possibly say? They couldn’t lie. You could keep things from children, but this wasn’t a lie she could tell. The whole world would soon know that nobody had won the book and that it was going to Jack’s publisher. She breathed through her hands, mind racing, as if she could think of a way to fix this, to turn the clock back, to have a second chance and answer the question one second quicker.
“No, no, Lucy didn’t win the book, but she won second prize. It’s a painting. One of mine. A big shark painting. She said you’ll love it.” Hugo smiled, met her eyes. “What’s your favorite shark? Hammerhead? Good choice. More animals should have heads shaped like that. Hammerhead cats. Hammerhead dogs. Hammerhead snakes. Wait. I think you gave me an idea for a new painting.”
Lucy watched Ms. Hyde walk out of the library, triumphant.
“You should hold on to my painting that Lucy won. In about ten years you can sell it, and it’ll pay for your college. Well, not a very good college, but still—”
Lucy laughed. A small laugh, so small Hugo didn’t even hear it. Second place, he’d said? She had come in third, tied with Melanie’s five points. Andre had finished with six. Not that it mattered. Not that any of it mattered. She reached out and rested her hand on Hugo’s shoulder. He looked at her, and she mouthed a silent Thank you.
Then she laid her head back on the chair and cried.
Chapter Thirty
Up in the Ocean Room, Lucy packed her suitcase. She felt drained, exhausted, more zombie than person, but it helped to keep moving. Hugo offered to help, but there was nothing for him to do but keep her company, distract her from falling apart again.
“I’m taking you to the airport in the morning,” he said when she zipped up her suitcase.
“I have to be on the ferry at five,” she reminded him. Her voice sounded faraway and hollow to her own ears. “Five a.m.”
“Don’t care. I’m going with you, and you can’t stop me.”
“I won’t stop you,” she said.
It was half past nine already, and she needed to get into bed soon, but she wanted to spend more time with Hugo. It might be the last time they’d ever get to spend together. They didn’t exactly run in the same circles. And when was the last time she’d been to New York? Never.
“If you want to take the shark painting back with you, I’ll have to wrap it and crate it, which takes ages, or I can send it to you in the post or—”
She picked up a pillow, tossed it at him.
He caught the pillow, wincing like it had hurt.
“What was that for?” he asked.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said. “You didn’t have to give me a fake second prize.”
“I want Christopher to have it,” he said. “And yes, I had to do it. I had to or I would have hated myself. You know, more than I usually do.”