I sat at my desk and returned to what had actually been on my mind all day: uncovering the identity of Ray4306. Fortunately, as the executor of my father’s will, I had obtained his Grid password. “Alistair, access the Grid messages of my father. Password: adt36w48.”

“Accessed.”

“Please display all message listings this year from Ray4306.”

“There are no such messages.”

I was confused. “What do you mean there are no messages? What about the April 14 audio message?”

“That message isn’t listed.”

Not listed? Every message is retained on the Grid, either in active status or in archives. “List all messages from that source for the last five years.”

“There are no messages from that source.”

I was exasperated. “The last twenty years.”

“There are no messages from that source.”

That was impossible. Unless my father had deleted every such message. That seemed unlikely. Why would he delete them on the Grid but save one on an anachronous storage device?

I considered the other possibility. Someone else could have deleted the messages—a technically difficult process without the password and highly illegal. There was one way to find out. “Alistair, record a message, please. Audio only.”

“Recording.”

“Sir, my name is Creighton Daniels. I’m the son of Eli Daniels, who received an urgent message from you dated April 14. I regret to inform you that my father passed away on April 21. I’m responding in his stead. I’d appreciate a reply at your earliest convenience. End message.”

“Would you like to review the message?”

“No. Grid destination Ray4306. Please send the mes…”

I paused.

“Did you say ‘send the message,’ Creighton?”

If someone didn’t want Ray4306’s message discovered…it was likely they were monitoring his Grid address.

“Creighton, did you—”

“Alistair, delete the message.”

“What is Inland Tribes?” Kate placed a cup of tea on the breakfast table in front of Abby.

“That’s the mission organization my parents were with. Why?”

“You have a message from them. The hospital just forwarded it to me. Do you want to take a look?”

“Yes, of course.”

The image of an African man sitting at a desk appeared on a visiscreen in front of them. “This message is for Abigail Caldwell. Abigail, my name is Umtobo Ogunji. I’m the office manager at Inland Tribes. Your appearance in Lae was brought to my attention by one of our staff members. I looked over your family’s file, and I discovered that we have a very old communiqué that has never been delivered to you. We apologize, but of course we had no way to send messages to you in the interior. We were saddened to hear of your parents’ deaths, but we are heartened to hear you are well. God’s blessings upon you.”

Kate turned to Abby. “Do you want me to pull up the old message? It’s from…wow…sixteen years ago.”