I flicked through her limited posts and clicked on the link to her photo albums. Again, most of them weren’t accessible, but when I scrolled down, a picture she’d added a few years ago made me gasp. I slid a finger across the screen and zoomed in. It was a photo of a dark-haired girl, wide-eyed and slim, dressed in a black-and-yellow-striped bikini, and with a huge grin on her face. The man next to her wore dark sunglasses, and had slicked his wet hair off his forehead, but the shape of his chin, his nose, and the beauty spot next to it, were unmistakable. I’d know him anywhere. Jack.

Heart pounding, I went back to her profile, searching for clues about where she lived, where she worked, but found none. I almost threw my phone against the wall in frustration, but as I scrolled back through the pictures and posts, a more recent one caught my eye. She’d been tagged in a photo with a group of people, all dressed in black pants and wine-red shirts, standing in front of a modern building by the ocean. Their bodies obscured the sign behind them, and the unhelpful caption read Best Resto Crew! Undeterred, I focused on the top left part of Maya’s shirt and zoomed in enough to make out the silver writing.

The Cliff’s Head.

In comparison to Maya Scott, the restaurant was easy to locate. I found it nestled away in a coastal town called Newdale, up the coast from Portland, not far from Yarmouth. Not far from the library. Fingers crossed and heart pounding harder than I ever thought possible, I dialed.

“The Cliff’s Head,” a woman said.

“Hello, I’m looking for Maya Scott.”

“This is she.”

Her voice was deep, a little husky, and I couldn’t speak—didn’t want to—in case it turned out to be a dead end, a mistake, a misunderstanding. I cleared my throat in an effort to psych myself up for the conversation, but she spoke first, an audible smile in her voice.

“Hello? Can I help you make a reservation?”

“No, thanks. I, uh, my name’s Lily Reid. I—I’m looking for Jack Smith.”

A long pause, then, “We don’t have anyone who works here named Jack.”

“No, uh, that’s not what I meant. I...I think you know him.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken.” Her pleasantness had disappeared, her voice now sounding wary and firm. “I don’t know a Jack Smith.”

“Are you sure? He’s my boyfriend, and he went missing almost a week ago. I...I know this’ll sound strange, but I found you on Facebook. I was going through your posts—”

“Excuse me?”

“—and I came across one of your photos. You’re in a black-and-yellow bikini, and you’re with a man. Brown hair, beauty spot on—”