Imani was losing her sense of urgency to find Melissa. It had been nearly a week since she’d spoken to the lawyer who’d suggested that her friend was guilty, days since Imani had reached out to Melissa’s suspected boyfriend or learned that Nate had paid for Layla’s school—a fact that Philip had apparently followed up on and insisted was nothing more than Nate doing a solid for a struggling actress. At Philip’s request, Imani hadn’t brought up Nate with Tonya herself. Their renter’s acting career was a sore spot, according to her husband. In the interest of everyone living peaceably, Philip thought Imani should forget about it.

But she couldn’t forget Melissa. When Imani closed her eyes, she could see Melissa stifling laughter and expressing sympathy, holding her hand or tearily cradling Jay, tipsily pulling her into the center of a living room to dance during a cocktail party or whispering to her on a playground bench about school gossip. She saw a montage of a friendship, regardless of whether Melissa had shared her secrets. She saw a life shared.

So she needed to see how Nate had died. She needed to see what Melissa had faced before running away—or being taken.

Imani clicked the link. A notice appeared asking if she was certain that she wished to leave the New York Post’s site and the page featuring a flowery article about Nate’s career, peppered with praise from film critics and high-powered producers. Imani selected yes and held her breath.

Her screen flashed white. Rather than a web page, a red message appeared in the center of the screen. “This site contains malware,” it warned. “Attackers on your…”

Imani closed the site and opened a web search page. Something like Nate’s crime scene photos would go viral. Screenshots were bound to be on someone’s page.

True-crime blogs delivered. Imani clicked on the first one and leaned into her screen.

The hunt for the images had made her forget the graphic nature of what she was searching for. As a result, she wasn’t prepared for the blood or the body. She gagged as she took in the horrific mess replacing Nate’s face. It had been blown off at close range, apparently. Bullets that entered from afar made neat holes—or so she’d gleaned from horror movies.