Back in my spare living room, I filled my notebook with other discoveries. I called Brenae’s high school and paid for her senior yearbook to be overnighted to me: it featured a photo spread that Brenae had done of senior prom, showing only the dancers’ feet. It was an evocative series, yet likely infuriating to the students who’d wanted a record of their pretty smiles and hairdos. On her own senior page, Brenae’s “faves” included the color purple; avocados, salted; and every Pavement and Dr. Dre album. She took part in debate, band, drama, and soccer.

I checked police records for the older brother: he had been booked twice for marijuana possession. With the third strike, dealing meth, it was probable that he’d get a jail sentence.

Davi Brasil was all over the budding social internet, cultivating his music career. He had three times as many friends on Friendster as Brenae, and a Myspace page full of moody photos he’d shot and sparkling praise from female fans.

Brenae’s father had once signed a public petition about water rights, but otherwise Brenae’s parents and eldest brother had no online presence at all.

Brenae’s apartment had already been rented again.

I wrote to USC professors about Brenae, and one wrote back: She was extraordinary, and she wanted everyone to know it. I probably wasn’t her favorite teacher because I insisted that she master the fundamentals of painting, and painting was too slow a medium for Brenae. But I predicted a great career for her. I’m deeply saddened to have been proven wrong.