Friday, 6:25 p.m.
Ten days after meeting her sister’s lookalike and losing her job, Leyna had established a new routine.
She would wake at six a.m. and check her phone, DMs, and email. Log onto her laptop. Pretend to look for a job before being distracted by Google News and the message boards.
These searches had always been as much about proving Adam’s guilt as about finding Grace. For too many years, Leyna had alternated between those two competing beliefs in her head: Grace was alive; Adam had killed her. Most days, she believed—needed to believe—that her sister was out there, and Leyna just had to execute the perfect Google search to bring her home. But meeting that girl had started a familiar spiral. The darker theory insisted.
She would interrupt these daily searches with frequent snacks. Ramen, toast, bananas, black tea brewed in the fridge. Off-brand peanut-butter-cup ice cream she’d found on sale. Didn’t matter what she ate. It all tasted like dust anyway.
Midday, she’d shower and change into her cleanest sweats. Or not. Then she’d update the poster-size sheets of white paper that covered her apartment walls as if she were a private investigator in some universally panned limited series. It was always like this when she was reminded of her sister in some major way. For weeks, she would replay her memories of that long-ago day, picking at the scabs to see if she could raise fresh blood.
Sometimes, if a new detail needed clarifying, she would place phone calls, or she’d submit a couple of job applications to maintain the illusion she might still make rent. Then it was back to the computer until sometime after midnight, brain and laptop battery exhausted, when she’d fall asleep with the lights on in a series of long blinks, staring at that day’s updates scribbled in purple and brown ink on white paper, looking for connections that didn’t exist and following clues that led nowhere. Her sister remained as much a ghost as she had been in the sixteen years since she’d disappeared.
That Friday, Leyna was standing inches from one of the sheets trying to determine if a late-night scrawl read after or alter when her cell phone vibrated on the coffee table. A prospective employer calling to schedule an interview? A friend asking if she wanted to hang out?
She walked to the table and leaned over to check the screen.
Private caller.
If it was a hiring manager calling about her application, the person would leave a message.
She returned her attention to the flip-chart sheets on the walls where she tracked Grace’s case and other cases like hers. In spots, she’d taped photos printed on cheap copy paper. The only thing missing from her reconstruction were the four Polaroids Grace had removed from her bedroom wall the week she’d disappeared. Back then, Grace and her instant camera had been inseparable. Her sister had strung lengths of twine on the wall to clip her favorite photos to. When one string filled, she’d start another. String number six had been half empty the night Grace went missing. A twelve-year-old Leyna had pointed to that half-finished string as proof that Grace planned to come back. A twenty-eight-year-old Leyna wasn’t as optimistic.
Before she left home for good, Leyna had spent hours in front of the photos in Grace’s room. Leyna could still picture those four blank spots on the wall as clearly as she could the Polaroids that had surrounded them. So many times over the past decade, she’d considered going back for the remaining photos. Staring at her own wall now, she regretted not taking them when she left. But she’d been understandably distracted.
Her phone buzzed on the table. Again, she ignored it.
As she studied the photos of her sister and other women who’d gone missing in the ensuing years, Leyna sucked in a lungful of thick air. The apartment had grown stale and too warm, but she couldn’t risk cracking a window in the living room and alerting others she was home. Her unit faced the courtyard, and she’d skipped her last couple of showers. She wasn’t exactly visitor-ready.
She briefly considered breaking her routine and grabbing a quick shower now. Maybe doing some laundry and a light cleaning of the kitchen. That would at least improve the air quality in the apartment. Instead, she picked up her laptop, sank onto the couch, and started typing.
The search for Grace and Adam yielded frustratingly familiar results: Random names and details about people who were not her sister. Who cared if a Grace Clarke in Iowa had been awarded her real estate license or a Grace Clarke in Michigan had posted photos on social media of her new puppy? Leyna jumped down each rabbit hole anyway.
The terms Plumas County and missing girl were only slightly more fruitful. Two Quincy teens are believed to have run away together, the first news story read. Then a few days later: Missing teens found in Portola area.
The next hit was for a sixteen-year-old girl who’d been reported missing after attending a party. A day later, the post had been updated with the news she’d been found. Another runaway.
In Chester, a fifteen-year-old boy had been missing since spring. On this page, there was no bold update header. Sometimes, families never got closure.
Next, she typed Adam Duran. That got twenty-five million results. Adam Duran Plumas County—two hundred fifty thousand. Adam Duran dating profile—four million. She checked birth and wedding announcements too and cross-referenced his name with hobbies he might still enjoy. Adam Duran archery. Adam Duran physics. Adam Duran killer. She even did an image search using an old photo.
Leyna knew there was little chance of her searches bearing fruit. The photo was too ancient to be useful, and killers in hiding tended to change their names.
Finally, for the second time that day, Leyna clicked on one of the many pages she’d bookmarked and scrolled through a bare-bones website that maintained information on missing persons in the area. She studied the columns of grainy photos provided by family or pulled from social media and read descriptions she’d long ago memorized before she stopped on the only one that mattered.
Grace Clarke. Missing age: 16. Current age: 32. Last seen: North Fork River Campground, Plumas County.
Bullshit.
She stabbed the Back arrow. She’d done it so often, the key had started to stick.
After taking a breath, Leyna moved on to neighboring counties: Lassen. Shasta. Tehama. Yuba. Butte.
She usually searched as far east as Washoe and as far south as Placer, though sometimes she went farther. At one point or another, she’d searched all the counties between the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans.
That day, she got only as far as Sierra County.
Missing Sacramento teen’s car found near Truckee.
Leyna guessed she’d clicked more than a hundred links that day, thousands that month, and her tap on the mousepad was muscle memory, her eyes half glazed when the page loaded.
A search is underway for a missing Sacramento teen who vanished Thursday night after texting a friend she was on her way home. The car she was driving was found abandoned this evening at a campground in Sierraville, about twelve miles north of Truckee.
Leyna skimmed the opening paragraph, trying to remember if she’d used the last of her eye drops, nearly dismissing the article as irrelevant. That was the problem with routine: sometimes it muted instinct. Her finger hovered over the mousepad, a moment away from clicking to the next link—Teen disappears from electronics store in Carson City—when every muscle in her body contracted, her lungs freezing mid-breath.
Campground. The last lead on Grace had also ended at a campground.
But that wasn’t what made Leyna abruptly dizzy. It was the photo.
For an instant, eyes bleary, Leyna hadn’t recognized the girl. Her brown hair was tied back in a ponytail. She wore a purple-and-white soccer shirt. No makeup. In the photo, she didn’t look at all like Grace.
The name underneath the photo was Elisa Byrd.
She was sixteen. The same age Grace had been when she’d disappeared. Not a woman at all.
Leyna read the rest of the article quickly.
The blue Honda Fit, borrowed from a friend, was discovered earlier today at the Upper Little Truckee Campground by a Sierra County sheriff’s deputy.
At 3:15 p.m. Thursday, Elisa, who goes by Ellie, texted a friend that she was stopping to use the restroom and might head into Truckee for dinner. She said she expected to be back in Sacramento by 10 p.m. She has not been seen or heard from since, according to the Sacramento County Sheriff’s Office. Elisa was reported missing late Thursday night by her parents, Paul and Sarah Byrd.
The car was found unlocked. The keys and Elisa’s phone have not been located.
Anyone who might have seen Elisa or knows of her whereabouts is asked to call…
Leyna heard the girl’s voice in her head: I’m Ellie, by the way. Actually, Elisa, but no one calls me that.
Ellie’s visit to the restaurant had been the excuse Leyna needed to jump back down the rabbit hole. Without a job, Leyna certainly had time for obsession. But though the girl was the catalyst, she wasn’t the reason Leyna had spent most of the past ten days staring at a screen. The reason would always be Grace. Ellie had merely given Leyna new data to populate the search field. But reading about the missing girl now, Leyna felt an unexpected pressure in her chest. What had happened to Ellie Byrd? Had she fallen or had an accident? Car trouble? What if the person who’d stopped under the pretense of offering help had exploited the isolation and darkness to shove Ellie in his trunk, intending to bring her somewhere even more remote? In the forest, it was easy to disappear. Even easier if someone meant you harm.
And then the question that always clawed its way into Leyna’s consciousness: How might this be connected to Grace?
After reading the story about Ellie several more times, Leyna navigated to the message boards on her favorite true-crime site. She’d bookmarked dozens of websites—some dedicated to cold cases or missing persons, others to photography or Grace’s favorite bands—but she logged the most hours on the true-crime boards. With its use of Comic Sans and its antiquated layout, this site had a retro aesthetic that offered comfort. Leyna imagined it looked the same as it had the last night she’d seen Grace.
Leyna scanned the boards for mention of Ellie, but the conversation was focused on a murder trial in Los Angeles. After two decades buried in a Los Angeles backyard, a woman’s remains had been unearthed—bones and scraps of the polyester dress the woman was wearing when she disappeared. The dead woman’s ex-boyfriend, a former tenant, had been arrested.
Leyna typed: What is everyone hearing about Ellie Byrd?
She didn’t need to add details—the people on that particular forum would be familiar with the case; if not, they’d immediately start googling the name.
She didn’t have to wait long. A frequent visitor who went by Boston Betty chimed in: Just what they’re saying on the news. Texted her friend that she was using the bathroom and then disappeared.
Leyna: Weird that she’d use a portable toilet at the campground when there’s a market not far up the road.
Boston Betty: Maybe she didn’t have to go then? You sound like you’re familiar with the area?
Leyna hesitated. Most of the people there knew her story. The parts she was willing to share, anyway. Some, she typed before quickly changing the subject. The friend had to be getting worried long before Ellie didn’t show. They had to be sharing locations, with her friend so far away.
Boston Betty: Driving her car too. Maybe her phone died?
Leyna: Convenient.
Boston Betty: Agree. And stupid to be all the way out there without a portable charger.
Leyna felt herself tense. Maybe Ellie had a charger and it or her phone was taken from her. Leyna typed: Anyone know if she had car trouble?
Boston Betty: ??? Is that what you heard?
Leyna: Just wondering.
A new name popped up: SouthernBella. Leyna tried to remember if she was from Chattanooga or Charleston.
SouthernBella: Also strange that she would be so far from home. Why would a 16-year-old from Sacramento be out in the middle of nowhere anyway?
Boston Betty: And by herself. That’s asking for trouble.
Leyna knew trouble found you even if you weren’t asking for it. But Boston Betty had a point. What had Ellie been doing on Highway 89 that night?
Someone named Kyle’s Mom tagged Boston Betty in a reply: Victim-shame much?
Being sixteen and newly licensed, Ellie would’ve been prohibited from driving another minor, but Leyna had no time for the conversation to turn ugly. She quickly typed: What about a boyfriend?
A flurry of responses flashed: Why was she asking? What had she heard? And, from Kyle’s Mom: Don’t think she had a boyfriend.
Leyna was trying to make sense of this latest piece of information when Kyle’s Mom, who Leyna suspected had connections in law enforcement, shared the rest of what she knew. Ellie’s best friend, Amaya Dutton, had loaned Ellie her car, and she woke up her parents when Ellie failed to return as promised. Amaya’s mom called Ellie’s, who reported her missing Thursday night. When the car was found the next day, the navigation history had been cleared, and the bumper dented.
CrimeChaser2000 joined then. Ellie’s young and pretty. At least she’ll get coverage.
Ferret Girl: My Black father-in-law vanished on a road trip to Vegas a year ago. Ellie’s already gotten more news stories. This was followed by a link to a foundation dedicated to searching for missing people of color.
CrimeChaser2000: Remember the obsession with Gabby Petito? I predict it will be like that.
Ferret Girl typed a list of other names, familiar to all of them. Leyna flashed to the missing boy she’d read about earlier, the one whose case remained open. He’d been Cuban American. Then there were the missing indigenous women the group had discussed on the boards only the week before.
There was a minute when no one posted—a moment of communal silence.
Then SouthernBella typed: Goes back to Virginia Dare, doesn’t it?
She didn’t elaborate, but everyone in the chat likely knew who she meant. The first English baby born at Roanoke. An ill-fated child, born at an ill-fated colony.
Boston Betty: Everyone loves a good true-crime story, especially when the victim is blond.
Kyle’s Mom: I’m guessing the families don’t love the stories.
Boston Betty: Unless the attention helps them find someone they love.
CrimeChaser2000: Speaking of, has anyone looked at the parents? People do some sick shit to their kids. She might’ve even made it back to Sacramento.
SouthernBella: They would’ve gotten an emergency order to ping her phone by now. There’s no mention that she ever made it to Truckee.
Boston Betty: Her phone could’ve died, or she could’ve turned it off.
SouthernBella: Come on. We all know how it went down. Ellie got out of her car. She took her keys and her phone with her. And somewhere between that portable toilet and her car, she disappeared.
Boston Betty: Agree. There’s no second location. Someone took her from that campground.