c25

It's almost seven a.m. now as I start the six-hour drive to Los Angeles. I'm jittery, wired from the last twenty-four hours. The kind of exhausted that lets you make different decisions than you normally would, where your brain isn't fully working through problems or calculating risk the way it should.

There was a split second, right before merging onto the highway, when I thought I should pause. Stop. Call the worthless detectives instead, or bring in Ashlyn or Gavin for help. Consider that I could be walking into something truly terrible, the kind of thing I would never recover from, or maybe never come home from, either. Go home to my apartment and wait for someone to tell me that this was somehow nothing, too.

Then I gripped the wheel harder, pressed on the gas. If I was the only person in the world who thought my sister needed help, then I was the only person who could do this. I was going to find out what happened to her, no matter what the cost.

I force myself to think about Evie: her laugh, the way she smells like jasmine. I'm going to find her, I tell myself. I'm going to find her, I'm going to find her, I'm going to find her. I try to blink away the image of my mom in that room, sitting amid all my sister's things. But it won't budge. It feels grotesque and sticking, burned in.

I used to try to make happy memories stick when I was a kid. The time my parents and I had a picnic somewhere in Zion National Park, when we ate peanut butter sandwiches and sat together in silence, all taking in the splendor of the landscape around us. Even then, at six or seven, I had the sense that you don't get to choose which memories stay and which don't, or maybe even which people stay and which don't, either. But I tried anyway. I'd concentrate so hard on the details of the space around me, the sensations, that I'd practically feel my brain absorbing the colors. "Remember this, remember this, remember this," I'd say inside my head. Now, the exact makeup of the scenery is a blur to me. I couldn't tell you what we talked about, or where we went next. I can't remember whether it was cold or hot outside. But I can remember willing the memory of the three of us into myself, begging it to stay.

I already know that the memories of last night with my mom, the morning, will always be there. I know that there might be a time when I forget specific things she said or did in the moment, the play-by-play. But there will never be a time when I can't close my eyes and see her sitting there, wrapped in her bathrobe, surrounded by the carefully curated pieces of my sister's life. I know I'll always see her face, the way it had looked so different in that room than at other times in my life. There was nothing about the room that looked like the home she had spent so much money creating, year over year. Nothing was beautiful, or neat. New. But I had stared at her expression and tried to place it as the sun streamed in from across the hallway, and it had occurred to me that it was maybe the first time that I had seen her look serene. Like she was perfectly content to stay right there, to remain there for as long as she could. And I guess it did make sense, maybe. At least all that stuff was predictable. At least it wouldn't leave.

The GPS announces that my destination is approaching, and I feel the fear settle deeper into my thoughts. I'm scared because of the obvious—that this Charlie person might be dangerous, that he's obsessed with a teenage girl he knows from the internet. That he could be a kidnapper. A rapist. Worse.

But I'm also scared because part of me wants Evie to be there. What I really want is for her to tell me she's been gone because she couldn't leave. She couldn't call. That someone forced her to post that message on Instagram. That of course she would have reached out to me if she could have. That she missed me too.

I shift the car into park, turn off the ignition.

I'm scared because I know that for all of that to be true, she can't be okay. And I still want to open the door and see her here, anyway.

I'm parked on the street maybe six houses down from Charlie's house, building up the energy to knock on the door. I dig my nails into the steering wheel as I coach myself through how this will go.

Should I have 911 already on the line? My phone hidden in my pocket?

Should I act naive? Like I know nothing?

Should I do anything at all just to get inside, to try to spot evidence of my sister?

I consider it all.

It's a crowded suburb, the homes so close together that you could reach out the window of one and touch the neighbor's fence. The neighborhood itself is a mix—some houses have yards overgrown with weeds, paint peeling off stucco, mailboxes that have been mangled in hit-and-runs but never fixed. Others are bright, newly renovated. Cheery.

I study the house numbers, count down to figure out which one is the one I'm looking for. My stomach drops when I see it. The windows on the side closest to my car are boarded up. A chain-link fence wraps around the property, empty plastic Coke bottles stuck into some sections. I squint, trying to see past the trash in the backyard, and I can just make out what looks like a small shed, cardboard covering its only window. It can't be big enough for more than one person to fit inside.

Oh, God.

The appearance of the house should be the thing that makes me rethink this whole plan, but it has the opposite effect. Adrenaline courses through me. I unclick my seatbelt and get out of the car, closing the door as quietly as I can.

I walk over to the house and take a deep breath as I wiggle through the already-open gate. I'm on the front porch, about to knock when I see it. The house number, just above the front door. 12021. This isn't the house.

I move backward quickly, going out the way I came, walking the few feet to the right house. To what I'm really looking for. And then, I'm even more confused.

It's more a cottage than a house. A bungalow, really. It's painted a faded, friendly shade of yellow with tall, proud-looking palm trees out front. The tiny porch has just enough room for two deep, slightly fraying wicker chairs, each of which is filled with overstuffed blue gingham pillows that match the front door. A reclaimed wood side table sits in between. Every bit of it is inviting. I look back toward the other house, the one I had gone to first. It was what I had expected, I guess. This…this is not something I was prepared for. And though everything about it looks cozy, unassuming, it's that thought that makes my chest flutter with worry.

Before I can second-guess myself, I bound up the stairs and knock on the door, hard. If someone is home, they'll hear it. The front door is a cornflower blue, a few shades lighter than it used to be by the looks of it, but it still happily pops against the warm gold of the house. Now that I'm closer, I can see the wind chime from the corner of the porch that lazily sways in the breeze as I wait for someone to open the door. I listen for a sound, a voice, but all I hear is the faint, somewhat distant hum of jazz coming from the back of the house. The backyard, maybe. I peek around the porch and see two small raised garden beds and a thick vine of wisteria winding up a trellis. It's the kind of place I can imagine myself living in one day. I stand up straighter, reminding myself not to get too comfortable. Not to let some nice-looking old man and his adorable garden make me forget what I'm here. Who he really is.

The lock startles me as it clicks, and when the door opens I find that I'm not standing across from a creepy old man, but a woman.

"Hi there," she says, her smile wide and bright, her face lined with deep creases. One thick, gray braid resting on each shoulder, and she's wearing a short-sleeve, oversized linen dress in a shade of blue that matches the door she's holding open for me. I pause for one second, readjusting, and she looks on smiling, a tiny gap between her front teeth.

I clear my throat. "Uh, hi," I say. "I'm…I'm looking for a Charlie?"

"You've found her, dear," she says.

This is Charlie? Charlie from the comments. Charlie who bought the doll.

I realize now, of course, that Charlie could be a woman. But…does that really make sense? Does that track with everything I know about predators, about danger? It occurs to me that maybe I have been very, very stupid. That maybe all of these clues have been a series of strange coincidences, that I'm just as paranoid as I've felt and for absolutely no purpose. But I want to make sure anyway.

"You're Charlie?" I ask.

She smiles like she's heard that before, but the repetition of the question doesn't bother her one bit.

"Well, yes, I think so." She laughs. "I certainly hope so, anyway. Technically, it's Charlotte. But no one's called me that in years except for my orthopedic surgeon, who—let me tell you—wasn't my favorite person in the world."

I notice right away that she's not peppering me with questions, too. That she doesn't seem in any kind of hurry to get me off the front porch, and as much as I think it's plausible that she's simply this friendly and patient with everyone, there's another part of me that sees something in her gaze like she's trying to place me. Like she might recognize me.

"Are you…are you a former student?" she asks.

So she's a teacher, then. A professor, maybe?

"I pride myself on never forgetting a face, even if I have taught so many lovely people over the years, but I guess it's possible that I've forgotten…I'm not getting any younger, of course, so maybe my memory is—"

"No, no," I cut her off, feeling bad that I'm making her play a guessing game instead of coming right out with it. Should I really be afraid of this woman? Should I really be this cagey? "I…I thought you might know Evie."

Her brown eyes light up then, like she's finally got it. Like she sees it. "You're Hazel."

I nod.

"Of course you are, dear," she says. "I hadn't seen a photo of you in so long…couldn't find any on your Instagram. But of course you're Hazel. Of course you are. Come in, come in."

Charlie gestures inside toward a love seat that looks like it could fit three people, if it weren't mostly covered in books, blankets, and a quilt that looks like a thousand floral dish towels sewn together. "You're so much like her, you know," she says, sitting across from me on a small couch. "It's something in how you stand…how you talk."

I'm flattered by the comparison for only a split second before it makes me nervous, cautious. An alarm bell goes off inside me, saying Careful, careful.

"Oh. Well," I say, shifting awkwardly in my seat, trying to avoid toppling the stack of books next to me. "Thank you."

She nods and smiles, saying nothing for a second, studying me, then pushes herself up from the chair.

"I'll get us some tea and something to nibble on," she says.

My eyes travel across the walls, each of them painted shades of bright, vibrant earth tones. Deep, moody hues of blue. Warm, lush greens, like grass in sunlight. One wall the perfect shade of terra-cotta. All the colors poke through the hundreds of frames and art and knickknacks that cover the walls. There are black-and-white photos of Charlie and other people laughing, wineglasses in their hands, heads tipped back with joy. The laughter is the same in all the photos, but the backgrounds are different. There are beaches and cobblestone streets and forests creating the backdrops behind them, all of it seeming so dull compared to the joy on their faces.

The photos are interspersed with colorful, abstract pieces of artwork and photography, as well as framed painting and drawings that were clearly made by children. There are dozens of these, dotted with messy writing that says things like LACEY 6-A and THEO 6-D in the corners. They remind me of art class in school, of the feeling of taking an hour a week just to make things. Of joy. And then I catch myself. Is collecting the artwork of children who aren't your own sweet, or obsessive? I search the wall for Evie's name but don't find it.

There are mirrors, too. All of them reflect the vibrance of the room, their borders lined with tiny pieces of sea glass, or intricate gold molding. There's something on every part of the wall, lining every shelf. It's like being cocooned in the tapestry of someone's life, wrapped in the warmth of all their best days. I pinch the side of my leg, reminding myself why I'm here, and that I shouldn't be comfortable at all.

Charlie is back now, setting down a tray with tea and some cookies in between us. She stirs some milk and sugar into her own cup and then leans back on the couch, tucking her feet under her while she leans one elbow on the armrest.

"You know," she starts, "when I didn't hear back from you on Instagram, I thought maybe Evie was wrong. That I should have been more direct. Explicit about who I was. Where I was."

My spine straightens and cracks at the mention of my sister's name. I look to the stairs quickly, like maybe she'll bound down them at any minute. I listen for a banging, a muffled scream.

"But she insisted," Charlie goes on. "She said I needed to be vague enough that only someone who really knew her would even pay attention. Just in case your mother had access to your accounts, too. Your direct messages."

My head is spinning.

She laughs. "She said you hated that doll. That if you didn't respond to everything else, to send a photo of it. She said that would really get your attention."

Eviehad told her to send the doll picture?

"I…I don't understand," I say. "Evie told you to message me? When?"

"Before," she says quietly. "Before everything. At first it was just supposed to be for an emergency. A way to get in touch with you should something go wrong and she…couldn't."

My jaw tightens.

"What do you mean, couldn't?"

Charlie is visibly upset now, not angry, necessarily, but distressed.

"You have to know that Evie was like a child to me," she says. "All of my students were special, but she was…different. How I felt about her was different."

She's speaking about Evie in the past tense. I'm afraid now, charting the distance from my seat to the door. Trying to remember whether she locked it or not.

"Well, as I'm sure you've gathered, I was Evie's teacher. Sort of. A school guidance counselor. I was an elementary school art teacher in Phoenix for many years, but when I got my master's in psychology, I moved to a middle school and started working with students there," she says, her eyes drifting toward some of the art on the walls. "That's where I met Evie. So she would have been twelve when I met her. Sixth grade."

She crosses her legs, straightening the fabric of her dress as she does.

"Those years are some of the most painful in anyone's life," Charlie goes on. "They're horrific years, really. Brutal. Unrelentingly difficult. It's why I became a teacher. At first I thought little kids needed the most support, the most safe spaces during those vulnerable years. But after a while I realized that the tween years are the hardest. The most tender. I wanted to be there for them in a way that was pure. By choice. So many kids feel like a burden to everyone around them, but it was my choice to help them. To love them. So I got another degree to be a school psychologist."

I don't know whether to be comforted by or suspicious of what she's saying. Is it appropriate to talk about your students that way? To say you loved them?

"I wanted to be the person who would sit with them and say, ‘This is exactly as miserable as you think it is, honey,' instead of dismissing what they were going through as unimportant. Parents are amazing. They do things I could never do. But they don't want to feel that level of misery in their own child. They don't want to carry it, to fully acknowledge it. I knew I could be that person for them—that I could try, at least."

She tucks a shock of silver hair behind her ear that's escaped from one of the braids. It's the first time I notice all her rings. Turquoise, amethyst, diamond. All of them stacked on one another, every finger dotted with something beautiful and unique, an extension of the walls around us.

"Evie was having a tough time that year. Kids didn't like how famous she was—how many free things she had. How beautiful she was. They sensed the money, I think. The fact that she was already operating like she was an adult with a job and a career. It's that age where all you want is to be older, or at least seem older. And Evie seemed older. None of them understood why that was a bad thing, of course."

I wrack my brain for memories of this. I was twenty-two then, my first years in New York. Distracted, yes. But I should have known. Guilt wraps its way around my throat and squeezes.

"Girls at that age are…unflinching. Violent. I don't blame them, really. It's an age that's all change, when you're not sure whether you should want attention or be afraid of it or both. It's complicated. But, sweet Jesus, they can be mean as wasps."

I don't like where this is going.

"Evie had been talking to some boy in the class, apparently. Flirting. I think she had written him a poem or something—a love letter, maybe. Something sweet and innocent. I don't know how, but somehow it got intercepted by this group of girls. And, well…you can guess what happened. They threatened to post it online. The poor girl was terrified. She thought the internet would tear her apart."

My heart is breaking for my sister. Oh, Evie.

"I don't know what it was about my office or me that made her want to chat, but she came to me once after school and told me all of it. She was so mortified, poor thing. I told her creativity was never anything to be ashamed of. That she should be proud that she put her feelings down on paper. I tried to reframe the whole thing for her, to encourage her to write it all down—every ugly thought, too. And she really took to it. Every day that she wrote, she said she felt happier. So we spent an hour after school journaling most days," she says, smiling. "And within a month or so, things really seemed to be improving. She was happier. Her grades were better. The bullies had quieted, or at least she seemed better at ignoring them. She made some new friends. She was happy. I expected her to stop coming by eventually, but she kept visiting me until the end of middle school. Even later, when my wife and I moved here for her job, Evie and I kept in touch."

She drifts off then in a way that says there's more to discuss there, but she's not sure where to start.

"She never said anything," I admit. "About you. The writing."

Why wouldn't she have told me that? Not once?

"Don't let that bother you too much, dear," she says kindly. "I got the sense that our time together was always something separate for her. Like it was almost sacred. She never pulled out her phone while she was there. Never talked about that part of her life with me, not beyond that first meeting. She told me once that my office was the only place she'd ever been where she wasn't viewed through the eyes of someone else first."

She looks at me in a way that's a bit pleading, like she needs me to understand that Evie's secrecy didn't have anything to do with me. I'm not sure if I believe that. But I'm starting to trust Charlie, at least.

"She needed something quiet and untethered from everything else," she says.

I'm nodding, taking in the story, trying to access the gratitude that I know I should feel for this person. This woman who seems so kind, so warm. The clatter of a teacup hitting the plate jolts me out of my thoughts. Charlie is fidgeting with her tea like she's nervous. Then she takes a deep breath.

"She's the whole reason I thought it would be a good idea at first," she starts. "She was the inspiration for it all. Why I even took the interview. My wife said, ‘This doesn't really seem like your usual thing…are you sure you aren't too old for all of that?' I mean, she supported me, she knew that there is endless therapy to be done with people who spend so much time online. But she wasn't wrong. I just thought…I don't know, I thought what they were doing would bring people—kids, really—like her some…meaning. Some peace."

I don't know what she's talking about now, and uncertainty crawls up my back like an ant.

"Who is they, Charlie?"

"ReBrand."

The influencer agency? The one Gavin told me about?

"You worked for ReBrand? The management company?" I ask, confused. "I'm not following."

"That's how Evie found out about them. It was me. I recruited her," Charlie replies, shaking her head. "I should have known when they mentioned Evie in our interview that it was all wrong. Off. Instead, I chalked it up to coincidence. I told myself that they mentioned Evie because she's the textbook example of a child who grew up on the internet. The one everyone recognizes, even an old woman like me. I was proud of myself that I knew her. Really knew her. And I was only so eager to tell them that Evie and I were close. That I had helped her. That I had a unique perspective on all things influencing. I'm ashamed of myself now."

So it was Charlie who told Evie about ReBrand, then. And…Evie told Gavin. I think back to our conversation yesterday, when he told me that Evie had chosen the topic for the docuseries.

"So…what happened?" I ask, steadying my voice.

Charlie is near tears now, twisting the rings around so many times that one of her fingers has started to swell, angry and red. The calm, cozy person I met an hour ago is dissolving into someone else in front of me.

"For a year, it was fine. I had virtual sessions with most of the clients, until they'd inevitably drop off. Disappear, really. But that's not unusual in my line of work, either. Especially not with young people. I believed ReBrand when they said that the creators were choosing to move on."

All I can hear in my head is one word: Disappear. Disappear. Disappear.

"Is it true?" I ask. "That they're using people's trauma to make money? That they force people to donate to them? Is that what happened? Did they want a cut of Evie's money, too? To exploit her? Gavin said they turned her away…"

She looks confused for a moment then, like she's not following what I'm saying, and it makes me uneasy.

"It was the opposite," she says. "They went after Gavin for the same reason they went after me. To eventually get to Evie."

I narrow my eyes, trying to make sense of what she's saying.

"There were tiers," she explains. "Levels of influencers. Internally."

"What? Based on follower counts or something?"

"No. It was based on what they thought a person could handle. And what they thought they really needed," she says, a tinge of sadness in her voice. "When it came to Gavin, it was clear that he and Evie were in different places. Different levels. That their ReBrand experience would never be the same. He was in the group that funds ReBrand…"

She trails off, and I know this is the place in the conversation where I need to ask the question, but I'm too nervous. Adrenaline is surging through me, shooting down my leg.

"That funds them…" I manage.

Charlie looks up now, making eye contact with me, like she's finally ready to come clean. "That funds what they really want."