As if answering, his iPhone chimed. Not the usual ring.

He looked at the screen. It was a FaceTime call. He didn’t ordinarily use FaceTime, and he didn’t recognize the number. He was going to ignore it, but if this was divine intervention, he’d better answer.

He swiped the phone. The screen was dark, but he heard music and the din of a crowd, like a nightclub or a bar. His own image floated in the small box in the upper right corner. He looked much like he did in the documentary. The camera jostled about, then a woman’s face appeared. It was shadowed, but he could somehow tell she was scared. She was walking quickly, bumping into people, her heavy breathing and muffled music pounding through the phone’s tinny speakers. Finally she came under some grim lighting and stopped.

Evan’s heart stopped as well. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. He moved his own face closer to the screen.

She said something into the camera, but he couldn’t make it out. But it was the face—the freckles, the strawberry-blond hair, the small scar on her forehead—that caused every nerve in his body to tingle. Evan rubbed his eyes with his balled fists. It just couldn’t be.

He fumbled for the volume, turning it up.

She said the words again, and this time they were clear.

“Help me.”

A hand grabbed the woman by the hair and the phone jerked violently and went black.

Evan blinked several times, trying to process. He ran to the sink and jammed two fingers down his throat. Vomit projected out of his mouth. Brown liquid and pill capsules. Many were still intact.

His legs felt weak and his thoughts muddled. He didn’t know if it was from the shock or if some of the pills had made it to his bloodstream. He needed to stay awake. Needed to understand what he’d just witnessed.

Gripping the iPhone, he pulled up the number. The caller ID said MOLOKO BAR and gave a place of origin: Tulum, Mexico. Light-headed, he clicked on the number. His own face projected on the screen as it rang. But no one answered.

Answer, he thought.

Please answer, Charlotte.

CHAPTER 9

MATT PINE

Matt tried to sleep, but his mind was turning too quickly, the springs on Ganesh’s sofa doing the rest. Staring at the cracked ceiling of Ganesh’s apartment, he listened to the sounds of New York. A cat howling (at least he thought it was a cat). Sirens in the distance. Garbage trucks banging around. He struggled to pinpoint what he was feeling. It was more than grief, a stew of guilt and remorse and sorrow and pain—but also something more familiar: deep, unflinching loneliness.