Chapter 1: The Flash of Emergency Lights

Over the next six months, Ryan worked with a therapist at a juvenile detention center, learning how to deal with his trauma and his anger. Mia visited him every week, bringing him books and drawing supplies, and she helped him apply for a new foster home, a small, quiet home in a rural town outside Denver, with a mom and dad who had experience working with kids who’d suffered trauma.

At first, Ryan was resistant, refusing to talk to his foster parents, refusing to participate in therapy. But slowly, he started to open up, drawing pictures of his new home, of the dogs that lived next door, of the park down the street. He started to talk to his therapist about his past, about the abuse he’d suffered, and he started to understand that he didn’t have to hurt other kids to get attention.

One day, Mia visited him at his new foster home, and she found him sitting on the porch, drawing a picture of Eli, the six-year-old boy he’d almost hurt. “I’m sorry,” he said, handing her the drawing. “I never meant to hurt him. I just got scared, and I didn’t know what to do.”

Mia took the drawing, smiling through her tears. “I know,” she said. “And you’re doing better now. You’re going to be okay.”

Ryan nodded, and he told her about his new foster parents, about how they’d taken him to the park, about how they’d taught him how to ride a bike. “I never thought I’d have a family again,” he said. “But they love me. They actually love me.”

Mia hugged him, her heart full. She’d spent six months working to help Ryan, and she’d finally seen the payoff. He wasn’t the same boy who’d run away from the police, who’d hurt other kids to get attention. He was a scared, hurt little boy who was finally getting the help he needed.

But then, her phone rang, and her partner Jake’s voice came over the line. “Mia, we have a problem,” he said. “Another foster boy named Ryan Hale just collapsed at a foster home in Boulder. The paramedics are on the way, but they say it’s the same pattern as the other cases.”

Mia’s blood ran cold. She looked at Ryan, who was sitting on the porch, smiling at her, and she knew that it couldn’t be him. He’d been with her for the past two hours, and he’d been doing so well. But then, she noticed a small scar on his left cheek, the same scar that Ryan Hale had, and she realized that this wasn’t the same boy. This was a copycat, someone who’d seen the news reports about Ryan Hale and was copying his crimes.

She jumped up, running toward her car, and Ryan followed her, his face filled with concern. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Someone else is pretending to be you,” she said. “They’re hurting kids, and we need to stop them.”

Ryan nodded, and he got into the car with her, driving to the foster home in Boulder. When they arrived, they found a paramedic kneeling beside a seven-year-old boy, who was lying on the floor, struggling to breathe. Across the hallway, a boy with sun-bleached blond hair and a scar on his left cheek leaned against the wall, a quiet, smug smile on his face.

Ryan’s face paled. “That’s not me,” he said, his voice shaking. “That’s a fake.”

The paramedic looked up, and her eyes widened when she saw Ryan. “You’re the real Ryan Hale,” she said. “You’re the one who’s been causing the collapses.”

Ryan shook his head, tears streaming down his face. “I’m not,” he said. “I’m not hurting anyone anymore. I’m trying to get better.”

Mia stepped forward, putting a hand on the paramedic’s shoulder. “That’s not the real Ryan,” she said. “That’s a copycat. The real Ryan has been working with me for the past six months, trying to get better. We need to arrest the fake one, not the real one.”

The paramedic looked at Mia, then at Ryan, and she nodded. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know.”

The police arrived a few minutes later, arresting the copycat Ryan, and the real Ryan stood in the hallway, his face filled with relief. He’d worked so hard to get better, and he didn’t want anyone to think that he was still the same boy who’d hurt other kids.