“I am taking it seriously. That’s why I’m doing this. It’s about as serious as it could get.”

“It doesn’t seem that way,” he says. “What if you only get four weeks? What if one of the others beats you in the ratings? What then?”

“They won’t,” I say, angry that he can’t see what this means to me. “My story is important.”

“Then prove it.”

We’re quiet for a while, then Danny says, “We can’t confuse the audience. They need to know who everyone is. What if Ross suddenly turns up on-screen?”

“He won’t,” I lie. “He doesn’t want to be famous.”

I should be honest with Danny. I should tell him my plan comes in stages—first the introduction, then the search for clues, all tied into the hope that someone says something important.

Then the left behind. The others, like me, desperate for justice and ready to tell their own stories. It’s easy to ignore one sad girl on the internet. But it’s a lot harder to ignore an army of them. That’s why I need Ross’s help.

I should let Danny in on my plan so he gets off my back. But I’m scared it won’t work. I’m terrified I’ve overthought it or underestimated people’s apathy, and in four weeks, this will be finished before it really started.

“Okay,” I say. “From now on, I’ll film everything.”

It’s easier to say that than tell him about things that might never happen.

Chapter 33

Throughout the day, they fill the viewers in by putting my messages on-screen, so they know who Ross is and what we said to each other online. They don’t know what we said face-to-face. Not yet.

I told him not to send me any more messages and gave him Dad’s cell phone number if he needed to get in touch.

Dad doesn’t use it anymore. When he does have to call someone, he uses the house phone, but mostly it’s the other way around—Nan calling to check in or one of Dad’s old friends inviting him out, even though they already know the answer. I’m scared that eventually, even his best buddies will give up trying to get him back to the real world. But they haven’t yet, and I think Hanna and Emily would be the same if it was me.

I found Dad’s phone stuffed in the junk drawer, wrapped in a charger cord that thankfully still works. I’m relieved it wasn’t hidden in the attic, buried in the piles we pull out every couple of years or in the one special box Dad asked me not to touch.

So now I have a second phone, one the producers don’t know about. I feel guilty not telling Danny, but I have to be smart.