When we did, we entered a whole different part of the island. If the island were also a ferry, we were now on the lower deck. Rather than lush trees, row houses now lined both sides of the streets. The plain brick and cookie-cutter architecture indicated that we were no longer among the hoity-toity. That was the thing with fancy islands for the rich. Someone had to work the electric and the water and the cable. Someone had to mow the expansive lawns and teach the tennis and clean the pools.

This eyesore of a street, tucked away where no one could really see it, was where these workers and all-year inhabitants lived.

“Are you sure we’re on the right street?” I asked.

“I am,” Rachel said. She pointed at one of the brick buildings. “It’s that one—third on the left.”

I shook my head. “Jared goes to an expensive prep school. That fits with this island.”

“But it doesn’t fit with this street,” Rachel said.

“He plays basketball,” I said. “It looks like he’s very good.”

“A scholarship kid?”

“Makes sense.” We reached a cracked walkway made of concrete and started toward the door. “Now what?” I asked.

“We knock,” Rachel said.

So we did—and Jared Lowell answered.

He was tall and good-looking, just like in the photographs. He wore a flannel shirt, jeans, and work boots. He looked at me first, then at Rachel. His eyes stayed on Rachel.

Big surprise.

A smile came to his lips.

“Can I help you?”

Rachel asked, “Are you Jared Lowell?”

“That’s right. Who are you?”

“This is Mickey Bolitar,” she said. He turned and gave me a brief though polite nod. “My name is Rachel Caldwell.”

The names clearly didn’t mean anything to him. From inside the house, I heard a woman’s voice shout, “Jared? Who’s there?”

“I got it, Ma.”

“I didn’t ask if you got it. I asked who’s there.”

Jared looked at us as though waiting for the answer. I said, “We’re here on behalf of Ema Beaumont.”

I wasn’t sure what to suspect. The most likely answer to all of this remained the most obvious one: Ema had been catfished. This guy, this Jared, had no idea who she was or what we were talking about. Still, this visit would confirm that fact, and we could be on our way.

In another sense, our mission was over the moment Jared Lowell opened that door. Jared Lowell wasn’t missing. We had found him. He was safe. The rest—whether he was the guy who’d befriended Ema online or not—was irrelevant.

So I expected him to say, “Who?” or “I don’t know any Ema Beaumont” or something along those lines. But that was not what happened. Instead his face drained of all color.

“Jared?”

It was his mom again.

“Just some friends from town,” he shouted back. “Everything’s fine.”