54

“No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality.”

—Shirley Jackson

True or false?

The business card I picked up from the dirt at the compound is faded but legible. The front of the card is embossed with the words: “Your Home for Pony Play.” Nothing else. On the back, a long string of numbers, letters, periods, and slashes—probably for the dark web.

I message Malia, knowing that each favor I ask of her leads me one step closer to Iceland, one step closer to Red Vine. Malia is the only one I trust with something like this. She knows a good contact at Amazon Web Services who facilitates her traffic in the slipstream in a way that doesn’t rouse attention.

It’s after 2:00 a.m. in DC, but it doesn’t surprise me when Malia responds seconds later. Interest is heating up around here. Ready yet for the Northern Lights? Will check your address tomorrow—looks like a TOR address, with the password embedded.

I do some searches on the Russian River property. It’s registered to a generic trust that leads back to a San Francisco lawyer who handles multiple trusts. The property was purchased thirteen years ago for a small fraction of what it’s worth now. The place doesn’t even exist on Google Maps.

After an hour of failed internet searches, I go upstairs to check on Rory and Caroline. They’re in the movie room, asleep on opposite sides of the sectional, the television still on. The color has come back to Caroline’s face, and her breathing is steady. I sit down next to her on the couch, zoning out. I want to sleep, but I can’t sleep. There is still so much to do.

Caroline starts mumbling in her sleep, kicking.

I place my hand on her shoulders. “Caroline, you’re safe now.” She keeps kicking, her face a mask of fear. “Tu es hors de danger maintenant,” I say more loudly.

Her eyes open, her arms go to her face to protect herself. “You’re safe,” I repeat. “You’re here with me and Rory.”

She’s panicked at first, but then her eyes find mine and she relaxes. The terror fades. “I don’t want anyone at school to know. Please don’t tell anyone.”

She grabs my hand, her jagged fingernails digging into my palm. I wait for her to say something else, but she doesn’t. Her breathing becomes more regular, her eyelids droop, and she is asleep again.