I race over to my bag and pull out my phone, Google “Natalie Aurora Bergen,” and hope for an obit. (Who even am I?) And there it is: her date of birth. I type the numbers into the prompt box, fumbling through a few variations until the third one works. Month, date, no year.

A minute or two ticks by, and I don’t find any camera software, no depository of files. I scan my surroundings, desperate for a next move. I spot it. Dr. Shelby’s office must have been a dining room, because the door at the other end takes me into the kitchen. Left or right? Upstairs or further explore the main floor to see if the mayor keeps a home office?

But then I hear the low rumble of voices to my right, Sheriff Morrow’s baritone slicing through the walls. Upstairs it is. I careen past a waterfall countertop to a back stairwell. Soon the second floor stretches before me. Though the master calls to me, I doubt I’d find a smoking gun in Mayor Bergen’s room. That leaves Natalie’s pink palace.

Inside, golden afternoon light streams through the window, still but for the fine particles of dust cast into its beam. Natalie could be down the hall or in the kitchen, sure to return any moment now. Even though she had her cool-girl room at the beach house, this place oozes with her—with the Breakfast at Tiffany’s poster on the wall, a pair of purple-and-gold pom-poms hanging from the back of the door, a dried corsage from junior prom in pride of place on her corkboard.

My mind conjures up a vivid picture: Natalie sitting at her computer, turning off the monitor when I came in last week. In the now, I wiggle the mouse, and the machine groans to life, a home screen cluttered with icons greeting me. There’s a folder labeled Nanny Cam.

Natalie doesn’t have any siblings. Didn’t.

A double click brings up a folder of video files. Hundreds of them, named with long strings of letters and numbers. It reminds me of the security files Gabriel put on that thumb drive for me. But there are subfolders, too. Dozens of them, labeled with names. The first few are unfamiliar, and then several are too close for comfort.

M. Quinn

C. Ellis

G. Escano

B. Escano

D. Martinez

A. Morrow

M. Harper

G. Sawyer

B. Vann

And on and on and on.

My name is a siren call. There are two files inside: one video and one text. Video first. A double click pulls up footage of my therapy session from last week. In the text file, there’s only one line: Will hopefully talk more about her grandmother.