c17

The PDF is color coded. I expected screenshots of texts, emails. But instead, it's all cataloged. Each section of the PDF corresponding with a shade of pink, orange, or lilac. It looks ridiculous. I can only imagine Detective Buxton's reaction to all of this. He's exactly the type of person who would never take this seriously, not even if what was written on the pages was helpful. He would never believe that something so beautiful could be truly useful, too.

I sit cross-legged on my apartment floor as I swipe through the pages of the PDF, the palette of colors reminding me of something Ashlyn had posted in response to an Instagram QA once. "What's your favorite color?" someone had asked. But Ashlyn hadn't responded by saying green or pink or purple or orange. Instead, she'd written: "The colors of a desert sunset." I can't help but smile at the memory, the PDF. The aesthetically pleasing absurdity of it. Even now, even with everything that's happened, this is perfectly, deliberately Ashlyn. Relentlessly on brand.

I know I should start at the beginning of what she sent over, that it's probably organized in a way that makes perfect sense, each piece connecting, but all I can think of are the texts from Evie to Ashlyn. I keep thumbing through the documents, waiting to land on those. I find it eventually—only one sheet, and only texts from Evie. No replies from Ashlyn, either because they never came or because she intentionally cropped them out.

I know that even what I'm seeing could have been edited. That it could have been generated with some computer program. But as soon as I start reading, I can hear them in my sister's voice. I can feel the fear, the panic. It was one thing to hear about it secondhand from Ashlyn, but reading the texts, sensing Evie's desperation, was different. It was a tone that was so different from the versions of Evie I'd heard before, even the darkest ones, the one I heard on the phone four years ago after the Aiden letter. And though they're not any different from what Ashlyn had prepared me for, it feels different to see them so plainly spelled out like this. There's a reason why she hadn't read the messages to me.

Evie, 12:07 a.m.

Hey. I know we haven't talked for a while, but I really need to talk. I wouldn't reach out if it wasn't serious. I just am really freaking the fuck out right now.

Evie1, 12:25 a.m.

Please, Ash. I really, really need someone to tell me I'm not losing my mind right now.

Evie, 12:42 a.m.

You know me. Would I ever triple text if something weren't serious?

Evie, 12:49 a.m.

Look. It's going to sound insane written out like this…but I think I'm being followed. Or that my phone is bugged. Something is so off. Weird shit has been happening. My stuff has gone missing…personal things. Just gone. At first I thought I was just losing it but then I thought…maybe *this* is why the stupid newsletter thing happened. Maybe someone has been listening. I don't know, but I'm freaked out.

Evie, 12:50 a.m.

I'm scared.

I swear I could hear her say the words in my head, and none of it sounded rehearsed. It sounded like she was spiraling, falling deeper down into something she knew she wasn't prepared to face alone.

But maybe I'm wrong. They're just words, after all. All she had to do was type them.

But whether they were real or not, the fact remains: Ashlyn ignored her. If Evie had texted me this, I would have canceled any job interview, dropped everything, maxed out every credit card I could find just to get to her, protect her, know that I had done everything I could as her sister, her friend. Even if she was lying, at least I would have known that I did that.

Had she tried to tell me something was wrong and I missed it? I avoided her calls more than I should have. I became less available. It was easier that way, to convince myself that what I had done was some version of fair. The best thing. I knew I had missed things, but something this big?

A memory of us sitting on my tiny couch one weekend last fall pops into my head. I had looked over at her laptop and noticed a tiny cover on the spot where her camera was, just above the screen. I had bought one for her as a stocking stuffer years before, but she had never used it, even though I'd told her horror stories about computer hacking and security breaches.

"Oh, my God," I said. "Has hell frozen over? Do my eyes deceive me?"

"What?" Evie had said.

I pointed toward the camera cover. "Don't tell me that Gavin got it for you or something, and that's why you're using it," I said. "I can't take that."

"No, no, I just hadn't gotten around to putting it on until now," she said. "More important things to do."

"Ah, yes," I said, gesturing toward the TV screen in front of us. "More important things like…watching Lost in its entirety for the…let me check my notes…third time in two years?"

The show was one of the first things I had shown Evie from my own childhood. I had loved it then—the absurdity of it, the mystery—and I thought she would, too. I was right.

"It's the smoke monster, Hazel," she said matter-of-factly, pressing PLAY on the remote. "I still don't understand the smoke monster. I need to understand!!! I must!!"

Should that small moment have set off some sort of alarm bells in my mind? Should it have made me ask why she was concerned about privacy now, after all these years? But that was months ago. Who knows what else had happened since then?

I swipe on my phone, getting the texts off my screen, deciding to focus on something else. Something that feels more understandable. The SABI newsletters. I tell myself I'll try to see what Ashlyn saw. And sure enough, by the time I get to the third or fourth email that Ashlyn has included in the PDF, I can almost see it. I start to notice the tiny turns of phrase that do sound so much like my sister. The whisper of sarcasm throughout everything that echoes her sense of humor, the rhythm of her speech. But even after I read all of them, and then read them again, something still feels off. I don't know how Ashlyn and I could know the same person if she really thinks Evie was capable of this.

I close the PDF and open Instagram immediately, a mindless tic. I scroll through my feed for a few seconds before Ashlyn is there, a photo of her sitting by a pool, her feet curled up under her. She's wearing a crocheted cover-up with extra-long sleeves, her fingers barely visible even though they're holding a book, some feminist self-help best seller. I go to the comments.

"Where's her man???" one person had written. "Oh my god does this finally mean that bestie is free of the trad wife pipeline???"

I've never known too much about "B," as Ashlyn referred to him on Instagram, since the two of them had started dating after her and Evie's falling-out. Most of what I do know I'm ashamed to have gathered on Reddit, where people constantly speculated what "B" stood for.

"It's probably just, like, Ben," someone had written.

"Maybe it stands for…Biblically conservative, but also fiscally conservative, too," another person had joked.

The most recent drama surrounding A + B, as Reddit called them (or at least what I had read before Evie went missing), was why, exactly, they weren't married and popping out babies yet. They were both from traditional Mormon families and had followed the typical trajectory: three to five months of dating followed by an engagement. A temple wedding would be held no more than six months later, followed by a carefully crafted mansion in various shades of white with two laundry rooms, one basketball court, a walk-in closet the size of a basketball court, and, of course, a view of some snow-capped mountains. But the wedding that everyone was waiting for had never come. Ashlyn would reply to curious comments with things like "We're taking our time!" and "There's no rush!" It didn't fit with the rest of what the internet knew about Ashlyn Price. Last I checked, A + B had been engaged for more than a year. But not anymore, it seems. I see Ashlyn has liked one of the comments about her finally being "free." Maybe she is finally taking a cue from Evie.

I had promised to text her as soon as I read through the texts and newsletters, though I suspected what she wanted was something I couldn't give her: to hear me say that she didn't do anything wrong.

Hazel

Hey. I looked over everything. Thanks for sending all of that.

She responds immediately.

Ashlyn

I've been sitting here so worried that you hated me now…but you get it, right? You see why I was skeptical of the texts?

No, I think, I don't really see it. Not completely. I take a second before replying to scan through the newsletters. It's true that most of them weren't kind to Ashlyn. But it is also true that they weren't exactly cruel, either. Most of the stories were…survivable. And I mean, she is living proof that it's true, right? Like pretty much every other influencer mentioned in the emails, she hasn't been canceled. She hasn't been ruined. She has more business than ever, more followers. An entire new product line coming out in the fall. For every person who criticized her, I know there are people who said, "Oh my gosh, I'm so glad to hear Arlo is from a reputable breeder too. It's like, if no one buys those dogs, then won't the shelters just fill up even more?" Maybe the criticism had been uncomfortable for Ashlyn, or inconvenient. But none of it was as damning as she had made it seem. None of it would make a difference for someone like her in the end. And none of it was reason enough to ignore my sister's pleas for help, even if Evie had been the one writing the newsletters.

As I try to figure out what to say to her next, I realize for the first time that I'm angry. Furious, really. If only Ashlyn had replied to her texts, called her to check in, then maybe Evie would still be here, safe. And yet I find myself deleting every reply I type out. I'm finding it impossible to say any of it. To chastise Ashlyn Price, Person Who Lives on My Phone. I've consumed as much content and commentary about Ashlyn's shortcomings and missteps as I have images of her outfits, or recommendations of her favorite skin care products. So why do I still feel intimidated by her, even now?

In the end, I decide to tell the truth. Just an easier one.

Hazel

I'm glad you showed them to me. I think they're important.

Ashlyn

You do?

Hazel

Yes.

I mean, I don't know what they mean. But they have to mean something, right?

Ashlyn

Maybe.

I almost laugh. Maybe? Your best friend tells you she thinks she's being stalked, then disappears from the face of the earth, and you think maybe those two things are connected? I had always brushed off all the criticism about Ashlyn being vapid or dull as inherently sexist. This is a woman who had built a whole business herself, an entire brand. Products that people loved. She is anything but stupid. But maybe I had been wrong to give her the benefit of the doubt all this time.

Ashlyn

Gavin said she could be like that sometimes, though.

That she would make things up. Create chaos just for the sake of it.

I should be annoyed by the dig at Evie, even if I know firsthand that it's true. But something about Gavin being mentioned tickles my brain. Did Ashlyn already talk about all of this with Gavin at the search in Palm Springs? And if so, what did he tell her?

Hazel

Did he ever tell you why Palm Springs? Why he thought that would be the best place to look?

She doesn't reply for a minute this time. I watch the "typing" bubble pop up and disappear three times before a message finally lands in my inbox.

Ashlyn

You should really ask him that.

You should probably ask him about a lot of things, actually.

Our conversation is interrupted by my phone lighting up: a notification from TikTok. A new video from the true crime account that had been covering Evie's case. The title scrolls across my screen: "Has anyone seen this insane leaked transcript from Gavin Ramirez??? Let's discuss!"

And then I press PLAY.

Interview with Gavin Ramirez

June 17, 2023, 5:47 p.m.

Detective