“Hold up. Did you say you went through my Facebook photos?”

Shit. “I know how crazy this sounds, believe me, but I need to know if this man—”

“You really shouldn’t be snooping.”

“But if you could take a quick look at the photo—”

“I can’t help you.” The phone went dead.

“No!” I yelled. “No, no, no!”

I’d found one lead—one—since Jack disappeared, and I’d blown it. Maya Scott thought I was a psycho, and who could blame her after I’d told her I’d gone through her photos? I considered my options, decided the best one was to take a screenshot of the picture, send her a groveling message and explain what I needed, and why. But as I swiped back to her photographs, my phone rang. The number was blocked, but I answered anyway.

“Hello, Lily? It’s Maya Scott. You just called me.”

“Oh, thank God,” I said, my voice breathless as I sank into my seat. “Thank you for calling back, I’m sorry—”

“No, I am,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be rude. You took me a little by surprise.”

“I shouldn’t have invaded your privacy...”

Maya laughed, warm and kind, a hundred and eighty degrees difference from moments before, and I felt my shoulders melt away from my ears. “Well,” she said, “it was a little strange, to be honest, but in your defense, whatever someone puts on the web becomes public domain. I overreacted. I apologize.”

“You’re very gracious,” I said quietly.

“Not at all. But I’m curious, why exactly did you call me?”

I told her about how Jack had disappeared, how I’d found a book, called the library and got her name before working my way through Facebook to locate her at the Cliff’s Head. She listened without saying a word, which I found admirable considering how insane it sounded. “Can you tell me the name of the man in the photo?” I pleaded as I got to the end of my story, holding my breath as I waited for her answer.

“I’m confused,” she said. “I thought you said your boyfriend’s name is Jack?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “I think he gave me a false name.”

“You’re kidding? What a piece of...well, it’s none of my business. I shouldn’t—”

“It’s okay, it’s fine. Please, tell me what you know about the man in the photo.”

“Well, it’s not much,” she said, and I let out a little groan. I’d been hoping for a miracle and I wasn’t about to get one after all. “I’m pretty sure his name’s Gordon Jones, or Gordon James or something. I can’t quite remember, it was so long ago.”

“Where was Gordon from?”