But something did catch Robin’s eye. A small picture in Tim’s friend box, accompanied by a name he knew. Amber Crusher. She smiled out of the picture, and Robin clicked on it.

Her profile picture was just Amber’s face, doing some kind of half smile that was obviously a pose. Her profile opened on the About page, although her profile was totally public, so he could see her feed too. He looked down her page, not really knowing what he was looking for. Nothing stood out. So he clicked onto her feed.

She hadn’t used the page in about a year and he wasn’t surprised. The kids had deemed Facebook “uncool” now after all—probably something to do with the fact their parents had decided it was “cool.” The latest post was from June 2018, and was about some TV show or something. He scrolled down to see a few more posts in a similar vein, until he stopped on a picture.

His stomach dropped out of the world. His cold Pot Noodle dropped out of his hands and synthetic chicken and mushroom splashed onto the floor. He didn’t hear it. He just shuffled his chair as close to the desk as he could.

Amber’s picture was labeled NEW TATTOOS :). It was a picture of her holding up both wrists.

She had sweatbands on. Whenever he saw her, whenever he talked to her, she had sweatbands on her wrists. Obviously, he had thought nothing of it. No reason to.

He looked at the picture, unable to wrench his eyes from it. Unable to think. His pulse was hammering in his temples.

He reached out with a shaking hand and found his phone, dialing a number he didn’t know he’d call again. And the images in front of him burned into his eyes.

Amber was smiling, her two wrists held up. On the left, she had a small tattoo of a dog, colored in black. On the right, she had a silhouette of a horse from the shoulders up.

The phone kept ringing and Robin willed her to pick up.

He kept looking. Knowing what he was seeing.

Her.

A black hound.

And a horse head.

Chapter Forty-Nine

She dusted off the record player, moving all the junk off the top. Circuit boards, frayed wires, hard drives—all stuff she thought she would need but knew, in her heart of hearts, she actually wouldn’t. She opened the record player lid, slipped in the Stones’ greatest hits and pressed Play. “Not Fade Away” started playing and she smiled.

She cleared all the junk off the desk, just letting it fall to the floor in disgrace. One of these days she’d have to tidy up the place, but it wasn’t going to be today.