“I think maybe you weren’t feeling well”—she eyed the bottle—“and you just thought you—”

“No,” her father said. “She was older, but there was no mistaking it. I’ve looked at hundreds of photos of her. It was Charlotte.”

“Then it’s a prank,” Maggie said. “Somebody found a girl who looks like Charlotte. Or they did some CGI. A sick joke.” It wouldn’t be the first time someone had played a cruel prank on their family.

“She said help me, Magpie.” Her dad looked like he was going to tear up.

“Charlotte’s dead, Dad. They found her body. She’s—”

“No, think about it. The girl’s head was smashed in, face completely disfigured.”

“But DNA—they must’ve—”

“I don’t think they ever ran Charlotte’s DNA. And why would they? No one questioned that it was Charlotte.”

“But, Dad…” Maggie trailed off. She’d seen him like this before. Going down the rabbit hole. Yesterday it was the video of the party—the image of the Unknown Partygoer. Today, a FaceTime call showing a dead girl alive and kicking. In truth, she kind of liked it. The light in his eyes—the rare optimism, the enthusiasm—spending time together working the case. What strange daddy issues she must have, bonding over her imprisoned brother and his murdered girlfriend.

She decided to humor him. Let him sleep it off. Maggie gestured for him to give her the phone. “You said it was FaceTime?”

“Yeah. I tried calling back, but it just rings.” He handed her the device.

She held the phone, still studying her father.

“The call, it said it was from a town in Mexico.”

Maggie examined the call log. The phone said it was from Tulum, a place called Moloko Bar.

“There are services that can generate fake caller IDs,” Maggie said. “It could be a scam.”

“Or not,” her father said.

Maggie pulled up a travel site on the phone. It described Tulum as “a stylish vacation spot along Mexico’s eastern coast, with amazing beaches, historic ruins, and a cooler, more laid-back vibe than the mega-resorts of Cancún and Riviera Maya.”

Her father stared over Maggie’s shoulder at the photograph on the travel site: a beautiful young woman on a beach sitting on a swing set made of carved wood, paper-white sand under her feet, the neon-blue ocean behind her.

Maggie googled Moloko Bar. It was a nightclub, images of young women in glittery attire getting bottle service, apparently having the time of their lives.

She looked at her dad again. It was as if a lightbulb had gone off over his head.

“Next week,” he said, “for spring break, how’d you like to go on a trip?”

Maggie tipped her head to one side. “Where? You mean there?” She pointed at the screen.

Her dad nodded slowly, his eyes alight.

“I thought we couldn’t go anywhere this year—that money was—”