Someone in the background let out a sharp “Dude.”

“Yes,” I confirmed, “his girlfriend, Macy.”

“Oh, shit.” The line went quiet, muffled, as if someone was holding a hand there. When he came back, he said simply, “Elliot’s not here.”

“Did he go home without his phone?” I asked.

“Nah.”

Confused, I pressed, “So how is he not there if you know he didn’t go home?”

“Macy.” A slow, drunken laugh, and then, “I am way too high to follow that.”

“Okay,” I said calmly, “can you just give me your address?”

He rattled off an address on Rosewood Drive, adding, “Second house on the left. You’ll hear it.”

“Chris,” someone protested in the background, “don’t.”

Christian let out another low laugh. “What the fuck do I care?”

And then he hung up.

Christian’s house was new, and therefore large for the Craftsman-modest Healdsburg, set on a hill and overlooking a vineyard. He was right: I could hear it as soon as I turned onto his street. Cars jammed the long driveway, fanning out messily toward the curb. I parked in the first empty stretch of street, several houses down. Zipping my puffy jacket over my dress, I left my heels in the car, grabbed some flip-flops from the trunk, and trudged back up the hill.

It seemed silly to even bother knocking. The door was slightly ajar, noise pouring out, so I just pushed inside, stepping over a wide pile of shoes that seemed paradoxically thoughtful given the state of the rest of the house. There were cans, bottles, and stubbed-out joints on nearly every flat surface. Blaring music and television battled from down the hall. On the living room couch, two guys were passed out, and a third sat with a game controller in his hand, playing Call of Duty.

“Have you seen Elliot?” I asked, yelling above the hammering of fictional gunfire.

The guy looked up, glanced over to the kitchen, and then shrugged.

I headed to the kitchen.

The room was huge, and a complete disaster. Blender drinks had been attempted and abandoned. A pyramid of beer cans sat on a sturdy marble island, surrounded by a wreath of broken chips, smears of salsa, a trail of M&M’s. The sink was full of smudged glassware and a tall bong.

“He’s upstairs,” someone said behind me. I turned, and recognized Christian from the photos on Elliot’s desk. He was tall—not as tall as Elliot, but wider, with an ill-advised goatee, and a beer stain on his Chico State Wildcats T-shirt. His eyes were bloodshot and dilated nearly to black. At his side, another guy stared wide-eyed at me, looking like he was going to be sick. It was Brandon.

Elliot’s two best friends.

“Upstairs?” I repeated. Christian lifted his chin in a nod, rolling a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other.

“He’s really wasted,” Brandon said, following me when I turned to head out of the kitchen and upstairs. His voice grew increasingly desperate as my foot hit the first step. “Macy, I wouldn’t. I think he’s been sick.”