“Dad, you really have to see this.” I lean in to peer at the tiny screen of my phone and call him in from the kitchen.

The two police officers sitting across from me look away. They both gave me the once-over when they first arrived. I saw the glance between them—the unspoken agreement to be careful with pronouns. Then the cops began to study the house. Granted, most of our guests spend a lot of time taking in the details of my father’s design. He’s done his best to cultivate serious mountain chalet vibes. The great room, with its stone fireplace, wood beams, and wall of windows, imposes with coziness.

I know Dad has asked the police to meet us here instead of the station. He leaves Kallie alone as seldom as possible. And then there’s the fact that his house stands as his ultimate flex.

Earlier, when I called him on playing the rich guy card, my father leaned forward, kept intense eye contact, and told me, “Do I think it’s right that Tacoma PD might treat Shea’s case more attentively after meeting here? I do not. But you know what, Delancey? You’re going to feel more comfortable in your own home than down at the police station. And I’ve worked very hard for that rich guy card. If I don’t flash it now to find Shea, then I don’t know what it’s good for.”

So now the Tacoma PD and I wait, facing one another on artfully weathered leather sofas, while my powerful father arranges a tray of healthy snacks.

His hospitality feels unnecessary. They already seem impressed with the architecture. And still they stare at me like I’m a set of fingerprints showing up on a dusted surface.

“Is this the video that Shea posted earlier?” Detective Agarwal asks, and I lower my eyes to my phone. “We have technicians reviewing that footage. It’s good news, right? Shea is dancing again. Hopefully, she’s working through some of her issues.”

Dad strides in with waters and snacks.

“Much obliged,” Officer West says, like he’s in a cowboy movie and tying up his horse.

“Shea doesn’t have issues.” I turn to speak to my father. “Did you watch it really closely? There are a couple of moments in particular when she seems really off.”

“Everyone has issues, though, right? I know I do. I bet you do, Delancey?” Cowboy Cop looks down at his notes as if it takes a huge effort to get my name right.

“Excuse me?” Dad puts his ally voice on, and the cop rushes to double back.

“I don’t mean anything specific about your child, sir.”

“We are happy to follow up and hear Delancey’s perspective on your missing stepdaughter.” Detective Agarwal speaks slowly and deliberately, looking down at a small notebook as if reading off a script. “Just like Officer West says, we do consider it a positive turn that we’re seeing activity on social media initiated by Shea. She’s keeping up with her usual habits. It gives us eyes on her. We know she’s safe.”

“Can you trace the location?” I know my voice sounds impatient. But they sound like followers, not investigators.

“Do you recognize the location at all?” West asks. I shake my head. “We have not yet accessed the considerable resources we’d need to trace these posts.” The cops look over to my dad almost apologetically. “I don’t mean to upset anyone. But this fits the pattern of a typical runaway situation. The upcoming wedding, an estranged father. A teenager with more independence than most young people her age. We see these family dynamics play out again and again. After a while, you get a sense.”

“Shea’s only sixteen years old. She can’t drive. She’s not in contact with her birth father. And there’s a lot going on right now. This isn’t like her.”

Agarwal says, “From what I gather, Shea has cultivated quite an online presence. Could she have met up with someone? Has she been corresponding with anybody in particular? Maybe she asked you to keep a secret, but you see how worried her mom is and then you need to rethink some promises. Does that sound right, Delancey?”

“No, it does not sound right at all. I’ve been telling you all this since the very first night. We were in the fun house. She vanished. There was no one. She would have told me. We tell each other everything.”

Officer West holds his hands up. “Just hear me out, will you? Let’s say I’m Shea. I’m an internet star—an influencer—that’s the name for it, right? I’m putting myself out there. I’m posting these dances because I love all the attention. So then I disappear—from a public event like the state fair, no less. Seems like lots of people click on me then, right? That kind of mystery comes with lots of clicks.”

My dad presses his lips together, the way he does when he’s striving for patience. “That’s not the kind of exposure Shea pursues. She keeps really careful boundaries with her online presence. And Delancey does not keep secrets. We have a very open and supportive relationship so that I can properly advocate for my child.”

I am done striving for patience. “We’re wasting so much time with all this. What are you saying—you think this is some kind of publicity stunt? We haven’t heard from Shea for six days.” Dad reaches over and places a hand on my arm—his signal for Tone it down. Remember who you’re talking to.

Officer West points out, “But we have heard from her. Shea has posted images. And now a video. It seems to me that she’s communicating quite clearly. I know that’s hard to accept. Oftentimes in these situations, giving some space helps defuse the tension. She’ll come home when she is ready.”

I look from my dad to each of the police officers. “You’re not listening. I thought you wanted to interview me because you understood how well I know Shea? She wouldn’t just disappear.” I shake my dad’s hand off my arm. “You’re getting married in three weeks. Do you really think Shea would do this to you and her mom?”

He sighs heavily. “I’m trying to consider all the possibilities.” I don’t know where I lost him. Dad turns to the officers and tells them apologetically, “We do have some complicated dynamics. Blended families present challenges.”

I tap on the screen of my phone again and hit replay. Tiny Shea starts dancing again. She moves listlessly and barely smiles. My dad shifts his stance again. He reminds me of one of those giant windsocks at the car dealerships. He blows one way and then the other. He tells the officers, “I gotta say, Shea doesn’t look healthy here. If nothing else, she needs a wellness check. Can you at least do that? Trace the location and then just stop by and check on her?”

“Where is Shea’s mom?” West asks. “Is she available to talk?”

Dad and I sit very still. Above us, Kallie lies closed in her darkened room. I have not heard her speak since I showed her the video. She let out an animal sound, a keening wail that first made me believe that I missed something in the footage. It sounded like Kallie had seen Shea’s body, not her diminished dancing to an old eighties song.

“She’s not available right now.” My dad’s voice is firmer than his shifting allegiances. “She’s resting.”

“I could go get her,” I volunteer. “Then you can tell her it’s fine that you don’t know where her teenage daughter is. Since we have a video in which Shea looks exhausted and starved, you’re pretty sure that’s just a stunt.”

“Okay, now, Delancey.” Dad issues a verbal warning.

Officer West leans back in his chair and lets out a slow whistle. “You’re pretty angry about all this.”

“Someone took Shea. She was abducted. People are counting on her. She wouldn’t just disappear.” I swing my words like a hammer, hoping to break through.

But Officer West just shakes his head sadly at me. “We see this differently. I see someone who maybe needed a bit of a break. Sir, neither you nor the girl’s mother has given us any reason to suspect she was being threatened. We have no notes, no reports of stalkers, no break-ins or vandalism.” He turns to me then. “Delancey, I’m glad that you don’t have experience with the pattern, but typically when teens are kidnapped, they’re not spending their time posting photographs of plants and snowfalls.”

I hit replay again and watch Shea lean forward and line up her steps with the beat. She twists and whirls but doesn’t execute a full spin. She moves stiffly, and then loosens up her limbs as the song continues. Almost ninety seconds in, Shea’s smile cracks through the impassive wall of her face. Recognizing her in that moment just underscores the absence of her spirit earlier.

Dad leans forward and presses his hands against his knees. “You don’t know Shea. That makes this hard. I’m glad we can see that she’s alive. But Delancey’s right to say she doesn’t look like herself. She’s a kid. She shouldn’t be out on her own. And I’m not law enforcement, but that suggests to me that Shea might be in danger. I do sincerely hope you’re right. But God help you if you’re wrong.”

My father moves to stand up and the officers look relieved to be free of us. And right at that moment my phone chimes. “Shea has posted another video,” I read excitedly off the screen.

Officer West looks over at his partner. “Well, what do you know?” It feels strange to crowd around my phone with two cops and my dad, waiting to see my best friend’s latest TikTok video. I want her to be okay, but if she isn’t, I hope Shea makes her predicament obvious. I hope she gives me something to show them.

It’s more 1980s glam—the Cure, I think. It opens with a peppy keyboard. I see a set of legs. Pretty sure those are Shea’s. She’s wearing gray leggings and green knit leg warmers.

“It’s just her legs?” Dad asks.

“Can you make it bigger? So we can see all of her?”

“That’s not how it works,” I try to explain. “This is the shot.”

“Is that some kind of trend right now?” Officer West asks. “Showing just half a person?”

“No,” I tell him. The four of us watch breathlessly as Shea’s legs stomp and turn and then another set joins her to dance in unison.

“Who’s that?” Detective Agarwal asks.

“We don’t know who that is. Because it’s just half of a person.”

“Presumably a different person,” he answers with authority.

“Right. Because Shea does not have four legs.” The second dancer wears matching leg warmers over black leggings. It may be an odd choice of aesthetic, but it’s a fun style—the cropped shot makes the viewer focus more closely on the movement of the legs. Without the distraction of facial expressions or arm motions, our eyes zero in on steps, stomps, and kicks. Even the leg warmers work to Shea’s advantage—they outline the shape of her muscles.

“Well, there you go,” West says. “It looks like she’s staying with a friend. A dance friend? Does that sound right?”

“It doesn’t sound right,” I insist. “She still doesn’t show her face. After the last few videos, that just keeps up all the weirdness. Plus, I know all her dance friends—none of them have seen her.”

“I agree with Delancey,” Dad says. “This doesn’t necessarily confirm that Shea is okay. She could be hiding an injury.”

“Or she could be ensuring that locals don’t recognize her,” West says. “Maybe she’s protecting the identity of her friend. I don’t see a conflict here. They’re dancing together.”

“Well, they’re both dancing.” The policemen take a few steps back; my dad holds my arm as if to reassure me. I try to explain, “It’s almost impossible to dance with Shea. I get it—you think these are just silly kid videos, but she’s a classically trained ballerina. If you watch closely, you see it.”

The video has ended without ever expanding to include the dancers’ faces. The camera never drifts upward to include anything else. “Just watch again—one more time. You’ll see that this person dances a lot differently. You can tell who Shea is.”

I hit replay. The two pairs of legs moving in unison are a cool effect, but the truth is the setup works to the other dancer’s detriment. Shea’s motions flow from one sequence to the next. Her grace seems effortless. Next to her, the other pair of legs strains at every step. That dancer doesn’t stumble, but they do lurch a little. They step cautiously while Shea moves deliberately.

It’s impossible to look anything but clumsy, moving alongside Shea. I know that because I’ve tried to dance next to her.

Detective Agarwal’s not having it. “We can’t just go around arresting people for bad dancing.” He swings his head to face my dad. “This is just not an investigative thread we will follow.”

Officer West looks down at me with pity. “Listen, Delancey, it’s really hard when friendships change. Especially in this case, you two are pretty much family. But that just proves you’ll be close no matter what.”

“My friendship with Shea hasn’t changed.” My voice sounds so bratty, even to me. “We don’t know where she is. Her mom doesn’t know where she is. This video doesn’t prove that Shea’s okay.”

“It shows her dancing.” There’s a sharper edge to Agarwal’s voice now. He’s not feeling the same patience. “We’ve got two teenagers, wearing matching clothing, posting dance videos. Mr. Renard, if you want a trace, I will apply for a trace. But Tacoma PD doesn’t take responsibility for interrupting unsanctioned slumber parties.”

“I understand, gentlemen.” Dad sighs heavily and rubs his beard with his palms. “Listen, this is just so out of character. Let me talk with Shea’s mom. But I know we want the trace. It’s not a priority, I get that. We still have a child who’s missing, though, and we need to know where she is. Then we’ll do what we need to do to bring Shea home and address it as a family. Thanks for your time. We appreciate it.”

West nods, mollified. I stand there and fume while the two officers file out the door.

When my dad returns to the living room, the house feels different. He stands on one side and I’m left on the other. I’m replaying the latest video on my phone. On my laptop, I scour the lyrics for clues. I have a notebook out to jot down notes. If the police won’t help Shea, then I need to figure out where she is. We haven’t gone this long without contact since we met in second grade. If she posted a video, I’m sure that she has buried a message for me in there.

Dad clears his throat. “Before we talk theories—are we okay?”

“I don’t even know what that means.” I sound petulant but also accurate. I don’t understand who counts as we anymore. The definition of okay appears out of reach too.

But I can’t help asking, “What are your theories?”

“Well, I just have the sense that before I came on the scene, Shea shouldered a lot of caretaking on her own. She cared for her mom during a serious depression. That’s a lot of pressure. And maybe now that I’m here, Shea feels more able to step away and focus on herself. So she’s spending time with a new friend. She may be rebelling—something she never had room to do before.”

“I don’t think that’s happening here.”

“Okay, but can you acknowledge that maybe it’s a possibility? A less dramatic possibility?” Shea dances in the square screen I hold in my hands. What is happening, Shea? Why hide your face? What are you protecting me from seeing?

I force myself to breathe. I remind my father with my most even and calm voice, “Here’s what happened. We met up with friends at the fair. No one argued or stormed off or texted passive aggressive comments on the group chat. I went into the fun house and when I came out, my best friend was gone. Diana, Pearl, Jolie, Marcus, and I searched everywhere. Then we called Kallie. Kallie called the police and they basically shut down the fairgrounds. I’m not being dramatic.”

“I know, I know.” My dad has his no offense hands up—his usual stance when he’s about to be offensive. “That was an incredibly traumatic experience for you—and not at all what I believe Shea intended.”

I fight to keep my breathing steady, to not flip the coffee table or throw one of my father’s architecturally interesting decorative objects against the wall of his great room. He says, “I’m just looking out for you, kiddo.” I know he really means it. My dad gazes at me reassuringly, believing he’s scoring parenting points all over the place. “We might not reach an agreement right this minute. However, if you’re currently feeling centered and solid, I’m going to head upstairs and try to talk through some of this with Kallie.”

I watch him climb the stairs. His voice sounds so positive, but his head bows forward. His hand is braced on the banister like he’s desperate for support. It feels disloyal because Kallie has treated me with such unswerving kindness, but I want to run past him and drag her out of bed. You’ve used up your right to retreat, I want to tell her. Fight for your kid. Storm the police station. Shout something.

Shea’s house is smaller than my dad’s sprawling showcase property. When I visited, I couldn’t help but see the ways her mom had withdrawn, how she’d left Shea to fend for herself. I remember taking off my shoes when I arrived, not because Shea and her mom worried about dirty floors, but because they made our footfalls heavier, and Shea tried her best to let her mom sleep through her days.

I know Kallie to be so kind. And I know Kallie to need so much. Chiefly from the two people I care about most.

When the police arrived, they banged on our carved wooden door the way the police bang on doors in the movies: forcefully. I’d been waiting for them to arrive, and the sound still jarred me. All that commotion, how could Kallie not come rocketing down the steps, wide-eyed and waiting for news of her daughter? How could she not be sitting with her finger on the refresh button every minute of the day since the first post appeared on Shea’s channel?

Maybe Kallie would have scrambled out of bed if it was a talent agent or a recruiter for a Netflix dance competition. The ugliness of my own thought sets me back. I sit down on one of the kitchen stools and just let it wash over me. Who have we become? Kallie petrified in her bed upstairs, my dad bro-ing it up with the cops, and then me, alone in the kitchen tasting my own rage and hoping neither my dad nor Kallie can read my mind.

Somewhere, Shea is out there. If she’s dancing and recording, then she’s counting on me to see every detail. I hit play for what feels like the thousandth time. There must be some detail, some hidden message that I’m not seeing in these two latest videos.

Above me, the floorboards creak. At first, I’m hopeful. Maybe Dad has rallied Kallie, maybe they’ll both come downstairs. We will solve this as a new and offbeat version of family. Blended, like Dad says. Not shaken.

But that’s not what happens. The cavernous house settles around me. Outside, the wind whips up from the waterfront.

It’s hard for me to close out of the app. It feels like abandoning Shea. But then I start texting and messaging. I give our friends two hours to meet me. Six days and Tacoma PD still has nothing. The only leads that exist are those posts showing up on Shea’s TikTok.

I know some experts in Shea’s channel, though. So I do what I need to do.

I summon her top followers.