We trudge around the building through dead weeds now muddy from the rain until we find the right door. It has a smooth, black panel, which I recognize as being for fingerprint scans. Otherwise, it has no locks, knobs, or anything to open it.

“3A, right?” I ask.

In my head, I hear Chris’s voice. “Right.”

I knock on the door and wait. A moment later someone calls out, “Who’s there?”

“Shawnda Jones?” I ask, using the name Chris gave me.

“Yeah?”

“We’re, um…”

“We’re old friends of Chris,” Adam says. “Can we talk to you for a few minutes?”

“Chris who?”

“Your boyfriend, Chris…”

“Duncan,” I supply, remembering his name badge. “Chris Duncan.”

“You’re too young to be friends of his,” Shawnda says, her voice closer now. There’s no peephole, but she must be able to see us somehow.

Adam glances at me with raised eyebrows. “What we mean is, our parents were his friends.”

“They lived in the same foster home,” I add.

“Right,” Adam continues. “And we just have some questions about what happened to him.”

“Which foster home?” Shawnda asks.

“Tell her the Lees,” Chris says, and I repeat his words.

There’s a long pause, and I don’t think Shawnda’s going for it. No surprise. I doubt I’d open my door for some weird teenagers either. Adam looks pretty geeky in his glasses, and my tattoos are hidden under my jacket, but we’re still strangers to her.

“Tell her something personal,” Trent suggests.

“Yeah, tell her I used to work at Downey Automotive,” Chris says. “That’s how I met Shawnda—she brought in her dad’s car, and I asked her out to dinner.”

“Chris used to work at Downey Automotive,” I repeat. “My mom said that’s how you two met.”

Finally, the door opens, and inside stands a black woman with braided hair and dark, suspicious eyes. She must be forty-seven or forty-eight if she’s about Chris’s age back in the present. She wears a moss-green uniform with her last name on the front, sparkling in digital letters, and her flexi is clear. “I’ve only got a few minutes before I need to head to work.”

“No problem,” says Adam. “Thanks.”

She lets us inside, into a small living room with furniture that looks like it might have been new back in our time. I stand in the middle of the room, wondering what to do. I have no idea what to say to this woman. How do you ask someone why a guy they knew thirty years ago doesn’t seem to exist anymore?

I sit on the edge of the sofa, feeling like an intruder. “So…when did you last see Chris?”

She cross her arms and stands a little away from us, mistrust clear in her eyes. “Thirty years ago, obviously.”

“Thirty—are you sure?” Adam asks, adjusting his glasses.