And then came Roger. Roger, who Andrea could talk to. Roger, the first person who got her. All at once, in Piper’s office, she could smell Roger—bananas, ChapStick, and the musty old apartment building where he lived with his family. They’d met outside Dr. Westin’s office. Actually, she’d noticed Roger in the waiting room, occasionally, though he hadn’t looked like himself back then. It was only on the sidewalk outside the office that they spoke, and that was because a man had been walking past with a llama on a leash. A llama, in Midtown!

Roger stepped forward with only the excitement that someone so young could have. “Can I take a selfie?” he asked the llama’s handler. The man nodded and grinned; he seemed to expect this. Then Roger turned, looked straight at Andrea, and said, “Wanna be in it, too?”

Andrea still had that photo in a drawer. In a parallel world, there were supposed to be more pictures of them to follow: Snapshots from dinners out. Pictures of their trip upstate. Jaunts around the city. A long-standing friendship.

But she only had three pictures of him, in the end. The other was one they’d snapped during their dinner out; Andrea had liked it so much she’d had it printed at CVS. And the third picture, well. The third picture wasn’t really Roger at all. It was a school portrait from his senior year that had been printed in the newspaper when the story broke. Roger wore a uniform blazer and had a bright smile, but there was something bruised behind his eyes.

And the caption gave Roger’s dead name: Jeanette McCafferty, 18.

There was a click, and Andrea sat up. Carson poked his head in swiftly, his brow furrowed. “Everything okay?” he asked, his eyes darting to her, then to Piper’s desk, which was irritatingly free of clutter.

“Yeah,” Andrea said. Had she given some indication she wasn’t okay?

Carson looked like he didn’t believe her. “I just need to grab . . .” He walked over to Piper’s desk, brushing invisible crumbs off the surface and then, so subtly that Andrea almost didn’t catch it, pulling at one of the drawer handles. It didn’t open. “Well. Piper’s on her way.”

The door shut halfway again. Andrea sat back, rolling her jaw. Was Carson acting paranoid? Or was she paranoid? The drawing in Arthur’s bag had turned her world upside down. She’d been so worked up she almost mentioned it to Reginald—but she was glad she didn’t. She’d also briefly considered showing it to Arthur—who put this in your schoolbag?—but she was afraid it would upset him.

She’d also been so worked up she’d called Jerry. “Andrea,” he’d said stiltedly, still getting used to her new name. “How are you? How’s your little guy? Has he started school?”