‌It’s been almost a week since Tripp and I found Mr. Solomon’s body, but I still haven’t seen or heard from him. He hasn’t been at school, which is one of the many things keeping my stomach knotted with worry lately, and he’s not answering any of my calls or texts.‌

Messages from Charlotte, on the other hand, are piling up fast and furious on my phone:

Tripp is nowhere to be found. I blame you.

Shane and I want to stop by his house, but we don’t know where it is. Where is it?

Just because I’m asking you for a favor doesn’t mean I’ve stopped blaming you.

I put my phone down without answering her. How in the hell, after four years of friendship, does she not know where Tripp lives? If that weren’t so weird, I’d almost be tempted to give her his address, because he certainly didn’t answer the door when I stopped by. But it feels like another

betrayal to hand out information that Tripp could’ve shared a hundred times by now if he’d wanted to.

Anyway, I’m supposed to be working.

I hung on to my internship by the skin of my teeth. The rules I have to follow now are many: I can’t be involved in any news stories, I’ve lost privileges for everything except my own hard drive, and I’m not allowed inside the Pit anymore. Even worse, the call for information on Mr. Larkin has come down from the Motive website.

When I tried to tell Carly about what Paul Goldstein had said—that Mr. Larkin took the Saint Ambrose job so he could be at the same school as his brother—she held up her hand before I could get out more than a couple of words. “Stop right there,” she said. “That story has caused enough trouble already. We should’ve listened to Ramon and killed it already.”

I didn’t dare protest.

My only jobs now are to help update the website, proofread documents, and compile media clips. It’s tedious and I hate it, but it’s better than getting fired. I have to report to a new supervisor, a public relations manager named Andy Belkin. Before I was banished from the Pit, Gideon told me that the research associates call him “Blandy.”

“So, these packets you put together?” I jump when Andy appears over my cubicle wall, as though my resentful musing summoned him. Andy is a short-sleeve-button-down-shirt kind of guy, and today he’s wearing a pale yellow version. His brow furrows as he holds up one of the stapled clip packets I put on his desk fifteen minutes ago. “For the next set of clips, I’d prefer a corner staple.”

“A what?” I ask.

He points to the staple, which runs parallel to the top of the page. “You did a straight staple, and I prefer a corner one.” He picks up my stapler and angles the paper so his staple creates a triangle in the top corner of the page. “See? Like that. Except, obviously, higher, because in this particular instance I had to work around your existing staple.”

Kill me. Just kill me, Andy, and get it over with. “Okay.” “Do you want me to leave this with you as a reference?”

“No, I think I’ve got it, Andy. Thank you.”

He disappears, and I lower my head onto my desk so I can bang it ever so slightly.

It’s only Friday, but I feel like I’ve already lived a lifetime this week. A sad, boring, isolated lifetime. Monday was a brief respite, since it was Martin Luther King Day, but on Tuesday I felt like I was on trial—Saint Ambrose v. Brynn Gallagher—with the entire school giving me the evil eye as I walked through the halls. Spy was the nicest thing people called me. I hid out in the library every free moment I could, including lunch.

Wednesday was a little better, though. While I was loading my books into my locker before the first bell, Nadia came up beside me and tapped my arm. “Why did you eat in the library yesterday?” she asked. “Did you think we wouldn’t let you sit with us?”

“Um.” That was exactly what I’d thought. “I didn’t want to put you in a bad position or anything, so—”

Nadia rolled her eyes. “You’re today’s gossip, Brynn. Pretty soon you’ll be yesterday’s news. That’s how it goes around here, and Mason and I never pay attention to stuff like that. It would be nice, though, if you’d make an effort to show us that you’re sorry for keeping us in the dark. Besides texting it.”

She was right, obviously. While I’m grateful that Nadia and Mason haven’t abandoned me, I miss the easy camaraderie we had, and I’m not sure how to get it back.

In summary, I probably deserve the purgatory of stapling dozens of media packets to Andy’s precise specifications. But I still don’t like it.

When I finish my next set of clips, I head for an empty conference room, close the door, and pull out my phone. Carly wouldn’t let me talk about Mr. Larkin’s maybe-brother today, so that’s an itch I still feel the need to scratch. I press a name in my contacts, and wait until a wry voice says, “What now, sort-of-cherished niece?”

“Did Mr. Larkin have a brother at Saint Ambrose?” I ask Uncle Nick without preamble. “Anyone you met, or heard about, when you worked there?”

“What?” He sounds bewildered. “A brother? No. Why?”

“I talked to a teacher at Mr. Larkin’s old school who said Mr. Larkin told him he was going to Saint Ambrose to be at the same school as his brother. Which is weird, right? It’s the first I’ve ever heard of a brother.”

“Are you kidding me?” My uncle’s voice gets uncharacteristically cold. “After everything that’s happened, you’re still snooping around about Will?”

My throat goes dry. I called Uncle Nick without thinking, assuming I could talk to him like I always have. “I got in touch with Mr. Larkin’s old school before Mr. Solomon died, and they only just got back to me—”

“You’re unbelievable, you know that?” Shame keeps me silent, and he lets out a snort. “I stuck my neck out for you.”

“I’m sorry—” I start, but I’m talking to dead air. He hung up on me.

My uncle, who almost never loses his temper, finally snapped.

I should’ve known better; I’ve already caused enough trouble for Uncle Nick with my parents. Mom, especially, was furious that he hadn’t told them about Colin hitting me at school. She spent half the weekend glaring at him, and muttering things like “I don’t recall signing up for having a third teenager in the house, but apparently that’s what I’ve gotten.” I take the long way back to my cubicle, past Lindzi’s office, because I can’t help but hope that if she sees me, she’ll wave and call me in like she used to. I might be wrong, but when Lindzi passed by Scarlet while Carly was laying down the law, the look she gave me through the window seemed sympathetic. I could use a friendly face right about now. As I near her office, though, I can hear her on the phone, so I linger in the hallway to see

if she sounds close to wrapping up.

“So do you not even want to talk about it?” she asks. A pause, and then, “I know, Carly. I don’t disagree, but the tip seems legit. What if people have been looking at the entire Larkin story from the wrong angle? What if the police did?” My ears prick up as she adds, “Look, just let me email it to you, okay? And we can go from there.”

Email it to me too, I think as Lindzi hangs up the phone. She would have, a week ago. There’s a clatter of keyboard noise, and then she bursts

out her office door, heading so quickly in the opposite direction that she doesn’t notice me. I stare after her, then into her office.

Her laptop is right there. It hasn’t even had time to auto-lock.

I glance over my shoulder at the deserted hallway, and take a couple of steps toward Lindzi’s office. Then a couple more. And then—

“There you are, Brynn.” Andy’s nasally voice makes me jump, and when I turn, he’s waving a stapled packet at me. “Really nice job with these, except I thought I told you I wanted them double-sided?” He hands it to me with an expectant look. “These are very important documents that the production staff needs to help them understand the competitive landscape. They need to be perfect.”

“I…” I take the handout automatically, but I can’t look away from Lindzi’s laptop. So near, and yet so far. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember that.”

“It’s all right, but let’s go ahead and redo them, okay? Why don’t you come with me, and I’ll show you where you can find some more paper?”

My shoulders slump as I prepare to follow him. But then—I can’t do it. I can’t let the opportunity pass. “Andy,” I say, a little breathless. “Can I meet you back at my cubicle? I was actually headed for the bathroom just now.”

“Oh.” His face puckers, but only for a second. “Of course.”

“Thanks. I’ll be quick.” I wait for him to round the corner, then dash back to Lindzi’s office. It’s still empty, and her laptop is still unlocked. I put Andy’s media packet on the desk and angle Lindzi’s screen toward me. Microsoft Outlook is open, and I navigate to her sent folder to see the last email she sent: Larkin (?) Background, to Carly Diaz. I open it and forward it to the junk Gmail address I use when I don’t want to give my real one online. Then I hear voices, much too close, and one of them sounds a lot like Lindzi. There’s no time to delete what I sent, so I’ll just have to hope that Lindzi doesn’t notice.

There’s also no time to leave her office.

I shove her laptop back to where I found it—I think—grab Andy’s packet, and spring as far away from the desk as I can. “Hi!” I call cheerfully

when Lindzi enters, waving the sheaf of paper at her. “Andy wanted me to give you this.”

“Oh my God, Brynn, you scared the life out of me,” Lindzi says, putting a hand over her heart. She takes the packet and frowns. “Why did he want me to have this?”

“He…” What had Andy said? “He said you need it to evaluate the competitive landscape.”

She rolls her eyes. “That’s a bit of a stretch, but thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, and hustle out of there so I can finish stapling packets until it’s time to go home and check Gmail.

—

Lindzi’s notes are rapid-fire and precise, just like her.

Most of the tips that came in through the website were useless, but there was one that said, “Looks like a guy I used to know, but his name was Billy Robbins.” I followed up, and this person claimed he grew up in New Hampshire with someone who looked a lot like William Larkin. I wondered if there was a name change at some point, and searched court databases in all six New England states. I found a strong possibility: a young man who changed his name from William Dexter Robbins to William Michael Larkin eleven years ago.

Then I searched the name William Robbins. There are a lot and none seemed right, but I did find this article about a New Hampshire man named Dexter Robbins. Attached.

Please read and let me know what you think. Lindzi

I click on the attachment and open a New Hampshire Union Leader

article that’s fourteen years old:

LINCOLN MAN REPORTS WIFE AND TODDLER SON MISSING

Grafton County Sheriff’s Office detectives have put out an alert for 26- year-old Lila Robbins and 3-year-old Michael Robbins of Lincoln after Lila Robbins’s husband, Dexter, 42, reported them missing upon returning from a hunting trip with his 15-year-old son from a previous marriage.

Dexter Robbins states that his wife and son were last seen in their home on Friday, March 5, when Robbins and his older son left for a cabin in the White Mountains belonging to a friend of Dexter Robbins.

Robbins couldn’t provide a more recent picture of his wife than the one from her high school yearbook. One of their neighbors mentioned they weren’t shocked that Lila and Michael were missing.

“Dexter runs that family with an iron fist,” the neighbor said, requesting anonymity. “We hardly ever saw Lila. I’m surprised he let her out of his sight for a weekend. She wasn’t allowed to go anywhere except church.”

The Robbins family attends a fundamentalist church in Cross Creek, New Hampshire, that, among other beliefs, opposes the use of modern medicine. “Michael has asthma, but Dexter refused to do anything about it,” the neighbor added. “That poor kid was wheezing every time I saw him.”

“If Lila saw an opportunity to get out,” the neighbor concluded, “I don’t think anyone would fault her for taking it.”

I lean back against my headboard and study the two images with the article: a blurry photo of a young woman with bleached-blonde hair and heavy makeup, and another of a small, dark-haired boy in the arms of a teenage boy. The first caption reads, *Lila Robbins, age 18.* The second says, *Michael Robbins, age 3, with his half-brother, William.* Neither boy’s face is very clear, but I can almost imagine that if the older boy’s sullen mouth curved into a smile, he might look a bit like Mr. Larkin.

Dexter Robbins’s older son, William, was fifteen when this article was written. Four years ago, he would have been twenty-five—the same age as Mr. Larkin when he died. The younger boy, the toddler who vanished with his mother, would have been thirteen then, and seventeen now. My age, and the age of my classmates.

I want to be at the same school as my brother.