A DISPLEASING ALLY IS RECRUITED TO THE CAUSE
IT takes a considerable amount of groveling in the hall outside Journalism to get Jenna the irritating junior tech wizard to talk to them. Cam, happy to have the moral high ground firmly under her own feet for once, insists on Blair doing the dirty work. (“Jenna hates my guts.” “She does not.” “Blair, I’m not degrading myself.” “Fine.”)
“You want to crack a stranger’s social media password why?” is Jenna’s response when Blair explains that she and Cam are curious as to how a person would go about doing such a thing. “Is this for a podcast?”
“No!” Blair says. “This is for a hypothetical situation.”
They’re filing into the classroom. Jenna hovers as Blair and Cam heap their bags on their desks.
“It’s for Blair’s book,” Cam says at the same time Blair says, “It’s for our editorial.”
“You’re writing a book?” Jenna asks.
“An editorial,” Cam says. “For this class. As you know. That’s what I meant to say.”
“What does scamming strangers have to do with true crime’s effect on American society?”
“Please?” Blair asks.
Jenna rolls her eyes. “The easiest way would be to guess this hypothetical person’s password. But I’m guessing you already tried that, hypothetically.”
“How many people can actually guess someone else’s passwords in real life?” Blair counters.
“Can’t you, like, write an algorithm to do it?” Cam asks.
Jenna gives Cam a look of withering disbelief. “You sure you should be going to MIT? No, I can’t, like, write an algorithm to do it.”
“Okay,” says Cam, unruffled.
“You could try a phishing scam,” Jenna says.
“Wouldn’t the original account holder still have to be around for that to work?” Cam asks.
“You’re hacking a dead person’s account?”
“Nobody’s dead,” Blair says quickly. “Just … inactive.”
Jenna shakes her head. “You know what? I don’t want to know. I don’t live for attention. I don’t want to get doxxed and sued.”
“So how would you do it?” Cam asks.
Jenna doesn’t want to help them, but she can’t resist showing off. Cam can relate. “A SIM swap might work,” Jenna says. “You call this person’s mobile provider and pretend you’re them and you lost your phone. The company can port their phone number to a new SIM card, so you get all their incoming calls and texts. Once you can access their authentication texts, you can reset all their social media account passwords. You just need to be a smooth talker with enough personal information to convince the phone company you’re that person.”
“Jenna, that’s brilliant,” Blair says.
“It’s literally a Wikipedia entry,” Jenna says. “Which you would know, if you asked Google instead of bothering me.”
“I’m not as smart as you,” Blair says piously. Jenna looks slightly less cantankerous.
“Lola disappeared five years ago,” Cam says to Blair. “What if her phone number doesn’t work anymore?”
“Lola who?” Jenna asks. “Never mind,” she amends quickly.
“She could’ve been on a family plan,” Blair says. “Maybe Ruth never deactivated her number.”
“Would this SIM card thing work for a phone that hadn’t been used in five years?” Cam asks Jenna.
Jenna shrugs. “No idea, but I don’t see why not. As long as the number is still active.”
“It’s worth a shot,” Blair says.
“Just, like, FYI?” Jenna says with a sarcastic Valley girl inflection. “This would be, like, totally illegal?” She gives Cam a sardonic look. “Not that that’s stopped you before.”
“Thanks,” Blair says.
“Don’t mention it,” Jenna says. “Like, for real.”
At the front of the room, Mr. Park is eyeing them over the rim of his glasses.
“I’m going to my desk now,” Jenna sings out. “Thanks so much for the help with that thing, Blair.”
Mr. Park’s eyes narrow. Blair can see him thinking the obvious: Jenna would never, ever, in a million years, ask Blair for help.
But she can’t help herself. She pulls out her phone.
Meet us at my car after school, Blair texts Mattie.
“Blair!” Mr. Park barks. “Phone out of sight or it goes in my desk!”
“Sorry!” Blair says brightly. Heads swivel.
At her own desk, Jenna smiles.
In her pocket, Blair’s phone buzzes.
And then it buzzes again.
At last, Mr. Park turns away. Blair bends down, pretending to look in her bag, as she checks her phone.
Two messages.
One from Mattie: OK see you then
And one from Luke: Rain check tomorrow night?
AN INTERVIEW WITH OFFICER MILITIA
Irene’s at work, so Blair drives them to Cam’s. They pile into Cam’s room. Kitten follows, looking interested. Perhaps Mattie or Blair has brought along snacks for cats? No? Are they certain about this?
Blair is the best actor of the three of them, so she pretends to be Lola on the phone. Mattie supplies the relevant identifying details. And it’s terrifyingly easy to get the Brosillards’ cell provider to port Lola’s old phone to Blair’s. All Blair needs is a scattering of personal details, provided by Mattie, and a story (lost her old phone years ago, only just noticed all her social media is two-step verified at the old number).
It’s not a good story.
But it works.
A single text message lets them reset Lola’s password. And they’re in.
Lola’s secret Instagram has zero followers and few posts. She updated it once every few weeks. The pictures are similar to her public account—trees, the ocean, campfires—but the captions are as long as Instagram allows, sometimes spilling over into the comments.
Blair scrolls through, skimming.
“What does it say?” Mattie asks.
Kitten has given up on snacks, and now he’s sprawled across their lap, purring like a small personal thundercloud. Cam is mildly jealous, but can’t begrudge Mattie their new best friend. Kitten has an unerring knack for knowing who in a room is most in need of comfort. “Blair, let me read it,” Mattie says. “What did she write?”
“Mattie, this is pretty rough stuff,” Blair says. “I don’t know if you want to see it.”
“I don’t care,” Mattie says. “I can take it. Whatever she says about me.”
“It’s nothing bad about you,” Blair says quickly. “It’s just that Lola was definitely really, really sad—oh my god.”
“What?!” Mattie and Cam cry in unison.
“I just checked the date on her last post,” Blair says. “It’s from the night she disappeared.” Blair turns her phone so they both can see it.
Another blurry night shot. The caption is stream of consciousness, uncapitalized.
another night the same night as always. when does it get better. does it ever. maybe not for someone like me. darren says i think too many dark things. that i have to look for hope where hope seems absent. i wish i had what he has. to be able to look at the world and see anything other than people dying, animals dying, the earth dying. he says we can take care of each other until the end. he says that’s what people do. that’s what love is. i wouldn’t know, i said, and his face fell. and that’s when i thought all i do is ruin everything good. all i do is ruin. all i do is—they’re telling me to put it down and join them what am i supposed to say
“All I do is what?” Mattie asks, snatching the phone from Blair.
“That’s it,” Blair says. “That’s the end of the post.”
Mattie looks through Lola’s Instagram in silence. Their eyes are brimming with tears that spill over as they read, leaving glistening tracks across their cheeks that they don’t bother to wipe away. It’s like they’re in a trance.
“Mattie,” Cam says gently. Mattie ignores her. Cam reaches out and puts one hand on Mattie’s shoulder. “Mattie, look at me.”
“She was so sad,” Mattie says. “I had no idea she was this sad. I should’ve helped her.”
“Mattie, you were a little kid,” Cam says. “This is so much bigger than anything you could’ve helped with.”
Cam takes the phone from Mattie’s limp hand. They don’t protest. Cam looks down at the screen.
Then she looks again.
“Wait,” she says. “You can see a person in this last one.”
“The one she posted the night she disappeared?” Blair asks.
“Yeah.” Cam zooms in. “I can’t tell, but is that Becca?”
She hands the phone to Blair.
“It could be,” Blair says, passing it back to Mattie. “But we already knew she was there that night.”
“Yeah,” Cam says, “but look at the time stamp. Lola posted that at three-thirty in the morning. Becca said she left at two.”
“She could’ve posted it after everybody went home,” Blair says.
“‘They’re telling me to put it down and join them what am i supposed to say,’” Mattie reads. “She’s talking about her phone! She posted this while someone else was talking to her.”
“Maybe it wasn’t Becca talking to her,” Cam says. “Maybe the picture is from earlier in the night. But if she took the picture when she posted that, Becca lied to us. And Luke lied to the police.”
“He could’ve gone to bed early,” Blair says.
“Then why didn’t he say that? Why make such a big deal out of everybody leaving at two, when they didn’t?”
“Luke would never hurt Lola,” Mattie says, ferocious. “Never.”
“But—” Cam begins.
“He wouldn’t!” Mattie says.
“I believe you,” Cam says. “But what if he’s covering for someone? Like Darren? Or someone we haven’t found yet?”
“Or Lola,” Blair says.
“Or Lola,” Cam agrees. Mattie starts to protest, but Cam talks over them. “Mattie, I know you don’t want to hear this, but we should consider the possibility that the girl who came back is your sister. And if she is, she’s been lying to everyone too.”
Mattie gives her a terrible look. Et tu?
“Fine,” Cam says. “She’s a sociopathic doppelgänger. But we should talk to Becca again. And Luke.”
Blair flushes. “I’m, uh, seeing him tomorrow night,” she says.
“For the investigation,” Cam says dryly.
“I can ask him about that night again,” Blair says.
“If he lied to the police, I doubt even your feminine wiles are going to get the truth out of him,” Cam says. “But if we can prove that Becca was still at the Brosillards’ after she said she left, we’ll have leverage when we go talk to her again.”
“But the security footage shows everyone leaving at two,” Mattie says, frustrated.
“How many cars?” Cam asks.
Mattie pulls their Lola notebook out of their bag, flips through it until they find the page they’re looking for. They hand it to Cam.
“You wrote down the make and color of each car, the license plate number, and the time it left?” Cam asks.
“So?” Mattie is defensive.
“So that’s great,” Cam says. “That’s amazing. But it doesn’t tell us who was in each car.”
“What was the name of that cop again?” Blair asks. “The one who worked the original case?”
“Bradshaw,” Cam says. “Tom Bradshaw. But he’s retired.”
Blair’s already taken her phone back from Mattie to search.
“Look at this,” she says, holding out her phone again so they can see it.
Former Detective Tom Bradshaw has his own website. It looks like it was built by a twelve-year-old in approximately 1993: fluorescent green typewriter font against a cobalt blue background, photographs crowded along the edges. The pictures are of American flags and bald eagles. There’s one of an older white man, presumably Tom Bradshaw, holding an assault rifle and looking stern.
A cluster of headers across the top of the site read THE FACTS ABOUT ANTIFA, MY JOURNEY TO THE TRUTH, and PREPARATION FOR PATRIOTS (SUBSCRIBE FOR MY FREE NEWSLETER!!!!!).
“This man is going to shoot us if we interview him,” Cam says.
“Maybe we should bring Brad,” Blair says. “But this is the website of a man desperate for publicity. We could pretend to give it to him. Tell him we’re working on another podcast.”
“What does Lola’s disappearance have to do with this stuff?” Mattie asks.
“Nothing,” Blair says. “But he doesn’t know that. He’ll talk to us.”
“I don’t want to talk to this dreadful man,” Cam says morosely. She waves off Blair’s protest. “Call him. But if he starts saying heinous things about trans people or touches his guns, we’re out.”
“Brad has a gun collection,” Blair says.
“Brad’s not a Nazi,” Cam says.
“I meant we could raid it,” Blair says.
Cam makes a strangled noise and falls backward on her bed. Kitten, sensing he is needed, abandons Mattie’s lap and clambers onto her chest to knead industrious biscuits.
“That was a joke,” Blair says.
“Not funny,” Cam says.
“We won’t go talk to him in person,” Blair says. “Too scary. We’ll call him. There’s a phone number right here.”
“He must really be nuts if he has his phone number on the internet,” Mattie says.
“Whatever,” Cam says, her voice coming out funny thanks to Kitten’s considerable weight. “Give Officer Militia a call. Give him my home address, while you’re at it. Tell him Kitten is undocumented.”
Blair is already dialing.
Retired Detective Tom Bradshaw answers his phone right away. Missing Clarissa? Yes, of course he’s listened to Missing Clarissa. He found it hampered by wokeness, but can’t fault their results. And they’re young; they have time to learn the error of their generation’s ways. Did they record it in an aquarium, though?
“We’re very sorry, sir,” Blair says. “About the—wokeness. And the recording quality. You’re right, we’ve learned a lot since then. Do you have time to talk to us for—uh—a new podcast? About another cold case? You do? When is convenient for you? Now? Seriously? Great! Yes, a video call so we can record! What a great idea. Let’s switch to video. Just a second.”
She props her phone up so that all three of them can see. A few seconds later, Retired Detective Tom Bradshaw’s enormous face fills her screen. He is holding his own phone directly under his nose, offering an alarming view of his extravagant nostril hairs.
“Good afternoon, girls!” he bellows. “How can I help you?”
“We’re researching a case you worked on a few years ago, and we were wondering if we could talk to you about the particulars,” Blair says.
“For a new podcast?”
Blair angles her phone slightly so he can’t see Cam’s face. “Yes, sir,” she says. “Like I said. We’re hoping this one has an even bigger, um, footprint.”
“Call me Tom, sweetheart. And I’d be happy to help. I can offer you some pointers on narrative structure. You did pretty good with the first one, for amateurs, but with the help of a real expert—”
Cam makes a retching noise.
“Problem with your signal?” Bradshaw bellows.
“I think so, sir. Tom.” Blair pokes Cam in the side. “Anyway, that would be wonderful if you could help us with our new project. Since you have so much to offer. And we really don’t know how to do anything at all on our own.”
“Yes, yes,” Bradshaw agrees briskly. “What’s the case?”
Much to Blair’s relief, he moves the phone away from his nasal cavity and props it up so that he can stay on camera without holding it. They can see more of what’s behind him. He’s in an office or living room—wood paneling, an immense American flag hung over a fireplace, a resigned-looking deer head staring into the abyss. Next to the fireplace, a bookshelf is stuffed with pamphlets and papers. Blair is grateful she can’t read any of the titles.
“You investigated a kidnapping five years ago,” Blair says.
“Ah,” booms Bradshaw. “That would be the Brosillard girl.”
“You remember?” Mattie blurts.
Bradshaw’s face jerks toward the screen again as he peers at them.
“This is M—uh,” Blair says. “Our, uh, intern.” Better to leave Mattie’s identity out of it. If this conversation blows up in their faces, Blair doesn’t want Bradshaw to be able to find Mattie afterward.
“Hello, young lady,” Bradshaw says.
Mattie winces but doesn’t correct him. Mattie, Blair thinks, is used to dealing with people like this in Oreville. She wants to defend them, but she doesn’t want to antagonize Bradshaw before they get the information they need. Out of view of the camera, she gives Mattie’s hand a squeeze. Mattie squeezes back. Cam opens her mouth. This time, it’s Mattie who pokes her in the side.
“Sure, I remember the Brosillard case,” Bradshaw says, oblivious to the complex network of decisions unfolding on Blair’s end of the call. “That was no kidnapping, though. That girl ran off.” He shakes his head mournfully. “See it all the time. Beautiful girl. Led astray. Drugs,” he enunciates.
“Right,” Blair says.
“I’m an expert,” Bradshaw says again. “Nothing gets past me. I’m sorry to tell you girls, but there’s no mystery here. Now, if you’d like some real ideas for your next podcast, I can talk to you about the war on American values—”
“Right,” Blair says hastily. “Of course, sir. Tom. We’d never imagined that you missed anything. Because you’re such an expert. It’s just that, with the Brosillard case, uh…”
Shit, she thinks. Why didn’t she consider this? Of course he’s not going to listen to them. He’s the one who said Lola ran away in the first place. They can’t get him to talk without disagreeing with him. And Tom Bradshaw is clearly not a man who tolerates disagreement.
And then Blair is struck with a left-field fit of genius that is either so preposterous Bradshaw will hang up on her immediately or so perfect he will give them everything they need in a gift basket with a bow.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Blair thinks, and crosses her fingers.
She lowers her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “The thing is, sir—Tom—she’s returned to the family domicile. We’ve been, uh, tailing her. A lot of suspicious behavior. And what you’re saying about a war on American values? We couldn’t agree more. The thing is, based on her activities, we think she’s been working this whole time with…” Blair leans in for the kill. “Antifa.”
The effect of this disclosure is immediate and extraordinary.
Cam makes a noise like a steam engine derailing.
Mattie lets their breath out in an explosive snort.
And on the other end of the call, Bradshaw’s mouth drops open. He is absolutely rapt.
“Of all the … goddamn. Goddamn. You’re kidding me,” he breathes.
“No, sir,” Blair says. “She’s been under their thumb all along. Antifa.” She is working hard not to dissolve into hysterical laughter herself. “We think the party she disappeared from was a, uh, recruitment event. For more antifa. So we need your help to find out who was there.”
“Sleeper agents,” Bradshaw says, nodding. “Yes. They do that. Infiltration. They could be any one of us.”
“Yes, sir,” Blair says. “And you’re the only one who can help us stop them.”
Cam has rolled away from the camera’s eye, shaking with suppressed laughter.
Hold it together, Johnson, Blair tells herself sternly. Get the names out of him, and then you can lose it.
“There could be sex trafficking,” Bradshaw says in solemn tones. “That’s often what they’re after. Perverse sex.”
“We haven’t gotten into the details yet,” Blair says. “But we have the license plate numbers of the cars who were at the Brosillard place the night the girl says she was kidnapped. We need names to go with the numbers.”
Bradshaw nods. “Of course. Goddamn,” he says. “Of all the—goddamn. There was no sign of it.”
“Like you said, sir, they could be anywhere,” Blair says. “Any one of us. They’re very good at covering their tracks.”
Bradshaw shakes his head sorrowfully. “They want the downfall of America,” he says. “The end of freedom. They won’t stop at anything less. Hold on a second, girls. Let me check my files. It’s possible I kept the information you need when I packed up my office.”
He stands up and walks away from the phone. The camera focuses on the deer head, which gazes at them implacably. They can hear several crashing noises from off-screen and a loud curse.
“Oh my god,” Cam whispers.
“Shut up,” Blair hisses. “I can’t laugh yet.”
Mattie, she is grateful to note, is staring at her with admiration.
“Unbelievable,” they say softly.
After more mysterious background noise—heavy boxes being dragged, perhaps, and a few drawers opening and closing, and a lot of unidentifiable thumping—Bradshaw is back on camera, triumphantly holding up a battered notebook.
Blair arranges her features as best she can into a solemn expression.
“Knew I still had this somewhere,” Bradshaw says. He gives the camera a significant look. “Now, girls, I’m going to give this information to you freely, because I believe in justice. These people must be stopped. But you come to me first when you have enough of a case to confront this girl. This is dangerous stuff, you hear me? These people will stop at nothing. Nothing. You understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” Blair says.
“I want to be a part of this,” Bradshaw says. “You need my protection.”
“You’re already doing your part, sir,” Blair says.
“A patriot’s part never stops,” Bradshaw says, holding up an admonishing finger. “You girls are playing in the big leagues now, you understand? And when you go to the big leagues, you bring the big guns.”
“My mom’s boyfriend has lots of guns,” Cam says brightly.
“Good,” Bradshaw says, nodding. “Good. You keep that sensible head on your shoulders, young lady, and you’ll get through this in one piece. But I’m coming with you when you—”
“Absolutely,” Blair says. “You’ll be with us every step of the way. Wouldn’t dream of moving forward without you. Um, you have that list?”
Bradshaw nods and reads them a list of names, car models, and license plate numbers. Mattie writes them down in their notebook as he lists them off, their face as grave as a tombstone.
“That’s it, then,” Blair says. “That’s what we needed. Sir, you’ve helped the side of justice today.”
“And you’ll call me as soon as—”
“What?” Blair says loudly. “What? I can’t hear you, sir. Are you there? I think I’ve lost my signal.” Blair disconnects the call and looks at her phone in dismay.
“Shit,” she says. “Now he has my phone number.”
But Cam and Mattie are both laughing too hard to reply.
STRATEGY
There’s no reason for Cam to go with them when Blair drops Mattie off at home, and it’ll be out of the way for Blair to bring Cam back to her apartment afterward. But Cam goes with them anyway, and Blair doesn’t protest. She turns the defrost all the way up before her engine’s warm, and a blast of frigid air sends them all shivering.
“I hate December,” Blair says.
“It’s not so bad,” Cam says.
“Was he really a Nazi?” Mattie asks.
“Probably,” Cam says. “A lot of those guys got radicalized out here during the public park standoffs between the far-right militias and the Bureau of Land Management. Remember the Bundy family? Those guys armed to the teeth and trying to take over wildlife refuges? The Pacific Northwest has been home to people like that since white people got here, basically. Starting with the treatment of Native people, obviously, and then the Black exclusion laws in Oregon and the Chinese Exclusion Act, which expelled a lot of the Chinese people in Washington. You don’t have to dig very deep to find a lot of ugly history here.”
“We didn’t learn any of that in school yet,” Mattie says.
“You never will,” Cam says. “I learned it from my girlfriend.”
Blair catches the look that flashes across Mattie’s face from her rearview mirror. “You have a girlfriend?” Mattie asks.
“Sure,” Cam says. “I’m gay. Her name is Sophie. Want to see a picture?”
“Yes,” Mattie says.
Cam scrolls through her photos, hands her phone back to Mattie.
“Oh, wow,” Mattie says. “She’s beautiful.”
“She really is,” Blair says.
“She’s the smartest person I’ve ever met,” Cam says. “Aside from me.”
“Did you meet her in Oreville?” Mattie asks in disbelief.
“She’s in college now, but believe it or not, I did,” Cam says. Cam turns around in the passenger seat to examine Mattie. “You never know,” she says. “You could meet someone here too. Of, you know, whatever gender you’re into. Or not. If you’re not into that. That would also be fine. If you’re not into, like, things. With other people.”
“Okay,” Mattie says. “Thanks.”
“Blair’s not putting any of that stuff in her book,” Cam says. “If you wanted to talk about it.”
“No,” Blair says. “Not going in the book. Of course not.”
“Okay,” Mattie says again. “I think I’m good for now, but I’ll let you know. Do you have time to look at the security camera footage when we get to my house?”
Blair’s going to miss family dinner. And she hasn’t called home. She’ll be in for it.
She finds she doesn’t much care.
“Sure,” she says. “Cam?”
“Of course,” Cam says.
Mattie’s house is silent and empty, but a light shines from under Lola’s closed door. Beneath the brooding glare of Humphrey Bogart, Mattie pulls out a laptop—the newest and most expensive version of the same model Cam has—and unearths a USB stick from a drawer. They plug the thumb drive into their computer and open their notebook.
“Becca told Tom Bradshaw that she left with somebody called Mark Runslow and his friend Jake Northington. White pickup truck. I think they were friends of Darren’s.” They consult their notebook. “I called them after Lola disappeared, but they didn’t tell me anything. They’ve all moved away, but my fake Facebook is Facebook friends with them if you want to interview them.”
“Your fake Facebook?” Blair asks.
“I keep track of everyone who was there that night,” Mattie says. They show Cam and Blair a Facebook page for a Cal Clarken, a computer network engineer who lives in Springfield, Ohio, and has thirty-six friends.
“Where on earth did you get that profile picture?” Cam asks.
“It’s Elliott Gould,” Mattie says. “From The Long Goodbye? You’ve never seen The Long Goodbye? How are you even a detective?”
“I wouldn’t say it was a calling,” Cam says.
Mattie shakes their head in sorrowful disbelief. “You should really watch The Long Goodbye. Anyway, I can message the people who were there. Cal is friends with all of them. Adults will friend anyone.”
“Let’s start with the security camera footage,” Blair suggests.
Mattie nods and opens the file.
On their computer screen, a car-filled driveway flickers to life in a silent, eerie, black-and-white movie. Cam leans forward, speeds through the footage until she gets to two a.m, when she lets it play at normal speed.
A few minutes after two, a couple of dark shadows emerge from the house, get into the white truck parked in the driveway. The truck’s taillights flare to life. It executes a sloppy multipoint turn and pulls out of view.
“That’s the pickup Becca told the police she left in? Both of those people are too tall to be her,” Blair says.
Cam speeds ahead again until another car pulls out at 2:15. Three more people, getting into a dark four-door sedan.
“That’s Julie Frank, Maureen Pullman, and Jeff Chalstrom,” Mattie says, looking at their notebook.
At 2:23, a third car, with four more passengers. At 2:27, the fourth and final car. Five passengers. One of them falls down walking to the car and then turns out, alarmingly, to be the driver.
All of the passengers correspond to the names and cars Bradshaw gave them.
None of them is Becca.
“We should check earlier, just in case,” Blair says.
“She said she left with those two guys in the pickup,” Cam says.
Mattie rewinds to 1:45. All the cars, back in their places. The driveway is dead still. Mattie rewinds further, and then fast-forwards to after the last car disappears.
Nobody moves in the hour before the white truck leaves.
And nobody moves in the hour after the fourth car drives away.
“Let’s check one more time,” Blair says.
“I’ve watched this a million times already,” Mattie says. “That’s everybody.”
But the three of them watch the departures again. Each dark silhouette, each car, until the driveway is empty.
None of the people who left the Brosillards’ is Becca.
Not in the car she told the police took her home.
Not before.
And not after.
And no one who leaves the house is Lola.
“She lied,” Cam says. “She was still in the house. Unless—”
“Unless what?” Mattie asks.
Cam glances at Blair, who guesses where this is going. Blair’s eyes are sad. She gives Cam a nod: Go ahead.
“Could somebody drive up to the backyard without ending up on camera?” Cam asks.
“There’s no driveway back there,” Mattie says. “But they could pull up on the lawn. The camera’s only on the front of the house. But why would someone want to—”
They stop.
“Oh,” they say.
“Someone who knew the house,” Cam says. “Someone who knew where she was, and how to get her out without being seen. And Becca was there.” She looks at Blair. “So was Luke,” she says.
“He was in bed,” Mattie says. “He was asleep. But Darren never left either. Not through the front door.”
“Luke asked me out tomorrow night,” Blair says.
Cam is looking at her with the most complicated expression Blair has ever seen on Cam’s face. Somewhere between sad and angry and pleading.
“He didn’t hurt her,” Blair says.
“Of course he didn’t,” Mattie says. They’re staring at the computer screen, oblivious to what’s happening between Blair and Cam.
“He might know something,” Cam says carefully. “He might remember something from the dream he thought he had. Something about Becca. Or Darren.”
“I’ll ask him,” Blair says.
“But—” Cam says.
“And then we go talk to Becca again,” Mattie says. “The three of us.”
“When’s the next support group meeting?” Blair asks.
“Thursday at eight,” Cam says. “It’s over at nine thirty.”
“I’m coming with you,” Mattie says.
“Of course,” Blair says. “You can tell your mom you’re spending the night at Cam’s. Right, Cam?”
“Sure,” Cam says. “We’ll make it a slumber party.”
“Ruth won’t care,” Mattie says. “She hasn’t known where I am since our dad left. But that’s nice of you.”
Cam and Blair are silent in the car on the way back to Cam’s.
Blair stops the car in front of Cam’s apartment building. Cam undoes her seat belt, but she doesn’t get out.
“I don’t think you should do this,” Cam says.
“Do what?”
“This date,” Cam says.
“Cam,” Blair says. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” Cam says. “None of this is fine.” Her fingers are knotted together in her lap, twisting. “If you get hurt—”
“I’m not going to get hurt.”
“I’ll kill him,” Cam says simply. “If he touches you, I’ll kill him. But it’ll be too late. You’ll already be—”
“He’s not going to hurt me,” Blair says. She puts her hand over the tangle of Cam’s fingers. “He’s not like that,” she says. “I promise. Whatever happened to her, it wasn’t him.”
“You don’t know that. If it wasn’t him, he knows something. You know he knows something. What happens if you piss him off, Blair? What if Mattie’s right, and that girl isn’t Lola? What if they killed her?”
“Cam, come on. That’s crazy.”
Cam shakes her head, takes her hands away.
She gets out of the car without saying goodbye. When the door closes behind her, the sound is final.
Blair watches her trudge toward her building, her shoulders hunched.
She doesn’t look back.
Blair knows Cam well enough to know that she’s crying. Her own heart twists in her chest.
She thinks of Luke’s green eyes, his smile.
She thinks of his hands, gentle on her cheek. The softness of his mouth.
She thinks of Meredith Payne-Whiteley, sitting at her desk in New York.
She thinks of how Luke told her he wanted to sail out across the ocean and disappear. To go into that unknown darkness utterly alone.
She thinks of what she’d wanted to say in response:
I’ll go with you.
“He’s not like that,” she says aloud. “Lola ran away, and then she came back. I’m going to find out where she went, that’s all. Everything’s going to be fine.”