Think, Emily. Audra—whoever you are. But nothing so far has made sense—from my missing records to the numbers in Clare’s cross. I must have known it might come to this. Must have left a fail-safe somewhere . . .

I pause, glance from the Formica cupboards of the kitchenette to the Keurig coffeemaker plugged into the crooked outlet. But what if Rolan’s right? If I was willing to publicly die to protect myself and others . . . if the situation was indeed so deadly . . . could I have given specific instructions not to share my records—even with myself? A veritable “Do not resuscitate” on my memory?

“What are you thinking?” Rolan says.

“That I’m too tired to think. I just keep going in circles.”

“Is it possible you ever had a criminal record?” he says. He is surprisingly focused despite his own lack of sleep.

“Somehow I doubt it.”

I should eat, though my stomach’s in knots. I pick up the tuna sandwich from the coffee table with a glance at the open three-ring binder of the hotel guide, then pause, the sandwich halfway to my mouth, as my gaze travels the tabs.

CHECK IN/OUT . . . TV STATIONS . . . AREA DINING . . . BUSINESS CENTER . . .

INTERNATIONAL CALLS . . .

I drop the sandwich back on the plate and grab the hotel guide as Rolan sighs and pushes up, paces several feet away. I flip to the International Calls tab. It’s a page of instructions for dialing out of the country, with a complete list of country codes.

“Rolan.”

He doesn’t answer at first.

“What countries did I spend the most time in, in Europe?”

“Uh. Maybe Hungary or Croatia.”

My gaze slides down the page, which has been unceremoniously colored in crayon by a previous guest’s child.

Hungary.

36.

I scan up the list.

Croatia.

385. A three-digit country code.

My heart begins to pound. I pick up Rolan’s phone, tap in 0-1-1, and slowly begin to dial.

3-8-5-9-1-1-5-7-1-2-6-9

Rolan turns, starts to say something, and stops.

“What are you doing?” he says, striding toward me.

A phone on the other end rings.

I lift my eyes to Rolan, who is on the cusp of tearing the receiver from my hand. The ringing stops.

A pause. And then:

“Audra? Is that you?”

10

I spin away from Rolan.

At first, I can’t speak. After several seconds of silence, the accented voice—a man’s—says, “If you can hear me but can’t talk, cough.”

“Who is this?” I say at last.

“Audra!” Relief mixed with wonder. “I heard you died! I held on to this phone just in case—”

“Who is this?” I ask again.

A pause. “Audra. Are you all right?”

“Yes. Please tell me who you are.”

A slow, audible exhale on the other end. “My God. You did it, didn’t you?”

“Please, who is this!” I can barely hear through the hammering in my temples.