Jordan ushered Wendy down the hallway before she could attempt a reply. It was lined with pictures of Jordan and her dad at varying ages, all smiling and doing things like fishing, camping, or going to soccer games. There were even a couple of Mrs. Arroyo from when Jordan was a baby, before she passed away.

Wendy’s house didn’t have any family photos like that. The walls were mostly bare, except for a few Monet prints her mother had bought ages ago. Time had faded the vibrant colors to mostly pale shades of blue.

Wendy stepped into Jordan’s room and Jordan shut the door behind them. The four walls were covered in black, red, and purple—a complete eyesore. There were pennants and posters of the Portland Thorns—Jordan’s beloved soccer team—covering the walls, all clad in crimson and black. Jordan’s medals hung on the wall from purple ribbons. The rest of her room was an absolute mess, as always. There was a heap of clothes in the corner and every surface was littered with a combination of magazines, trophies, and actual garbage.

But Jordan’s room also had a window that cast the best light and a watery blue comforter. She had pictures of herself and her friends taped all over her headboard. Several included Wendy. Most were of her grimacing while Jordan, arm hooked around her, beamed widely at the camera.

Wendy sat down on the edge of the bed. Jordan tugged out her desk chair, pushed off the pile of shoes, and sat in front of her. “What happened?” Jordan asked, leaning forward and placing a hand on her upper arm.

Wendy could feel panic starting to reach its way up her throat again. She licked her lips and took a deep breath before telling Jordan everything that had happened the night before.

Jordan sat and listened intently, the corners of her mouth pulled down in a frown. Her eyebrows flickered upward now and then, but she never cut Wendy off to ask questions.

When she started to tell Jordan about that morning, words failed her.

“And the detectives said … they said maybe he had been with us—wherever we were—so he might know something?” Wendy rubbed her arms, trying to fight off the goosebumps. “Maybe he knows where my brothers are?”

There was silence. Jordan sat back and let out a puff of air. Wendy tried to steady her breathing, but that just made it even more difficult.

“How old is he?” Jordan asked.

“I don’t know. He looked about my height, younger than us, though … Maybe a freshman?” Wendy pressed her thumbnail into her palm as she watched Jordan nod. It occurred to Wendy that if this boy was around her and her brothers’ ages when they went missing, maybe that could provide some kind of connection.

“And you don’t recognize him?”