c26

"They call it their hundred-year-goal," Charlie says, calmer now, but still visibly uncomfortable. "Because that's how long they estimate it will take."

"What will take?"

"For us all to…unplug, get off of social media. Learn to live without it," she says.

I pause for a second, and then laugh. "Is this a joke?"

Charlie rolls her eyes, not at me but like she can't believe it herself. "No."

"So let me just make sure I understand this: They want to make money off of influencers…but also to…what? Wean the world of their addiction to the internet? Explain to me how, exactly, that makes sense?"

She sighs, pulling her braids over one shoulder. "I know more now than I did when I took the job. When I interviewed for the role, they spoke in terms that made sense to me—boundaries, addiction, attachment. The mental burden of growing up and stumbling through your teens and twenties online. I thought it was noble what they were doing…a way to make existing online feel better for people like Evie. It wasn't until much later, long after I had signed all the papers that make a conversation like this illegal, that I realized that every client they had, no matter what tier they were, fell into a category of…examples. They wanted Gavin not only because they thought he might influence Evie, but because they thought he'd say yes immediately. That he'd be lighting quick to monetize his dad's illness. The sadness of it all."

"You knew?" I ask.

"Yes," she says. "And I'm not proud of that. When they told me, I was disturbed, but my contract meant I couldn't say anything. My mother is elderly, you see. Ninety-nine next month. I'm her only child. Her only source of care and income. She was battling health issues at the time…I just, I couldn't risk losing the job. The money. I was all my mother had. I'm not proud that I stayed for as long as I did, but there it is."

"And the work…I don't care whether they truly believed in it or not, the work itself was important. Giving these young people safe, private spaces to work through the dynamics of sharing their lives online…it was vital. I still believe that, even if it turned out that the company never did…at least, not when it didn't serve them."

"So it was what Gavin thought, then?" I say. "They wanted to make money off of the trauma. They knew people would engage with it."

"Yes, partially," she says. "They made money from all of it, of course. At the beginning they told me that they needed it for research, for planning. The only way they were going to get people off their phones for good was to market the idea accordingly. That wasn't cheap. But it wasn't just about getting every cent they could from Gavin, or his followers, but about making a point."

I shake my head, struggling to understand.

"Gavin is the best example of how they work, really. They thought they'd recruit Gavin, he'd sell out in no time, and he'd be one more person in the world that would prove their point: The internet is ruining us. Rewiring our neural pathways and dopamine receptors. Dulling and cheapening the greatest parts of life—joy, connection, meaning. All things I had tried to tell Evie, too. That all that money and fame comes at a price. ReBrand wanted people to really see that, in real time. To feel it. They had whole teams of people who mined and planted embarrassing stories about Tier Threes like Gavin, in Reddit forums and YouTube and Instagram comments. Mistakes they had made. Rumors with a kernel of truth. Reminders of how shallow they were. How warped they were from spending so much time behind a screen."

My mind flashes to the newsletters Ashlyn sent to me, and I tuck this piece of information away for later.

"So they make money off of these people, anyway?" I push. "These ‘lost causes'? They set them up to share their trauma, fundraise for it, monetize it to build their brands, and then ReBrand keeps the money?"

Charlie sighs. "ReBrand's philosophy was that they were beating social media at its own game. They were using consumer data and algorithms to get people to spend money, just like any other brand. Anyone on social media is just a click away from the BUY button at all times; those followers would probably be spending money that day anyway. Why not channel that impulse for good, rather than toward a new mineral sunscreen or a matching loungewear set or a course about how to retire off passive income? Eventual good, anyway."

For a moment, I can see how this philosophy would take hold, convincing a person that the influencer economy could and should be dismantled from the inside out. Wasn't this same thing I had struggled with a million times, weighing the way social media had changed my family, my sister, my life? Considering if there was ever a way to truly undo any of it? Maybe ReBrand was asking the same question.

And then I remember that they're capitalizing on the most pessimistic view of people, that they're tricking followers out of their own agency, and I'm mad for Gavin. Terrified for my sister. For whatever it means to be in some tier that's above that.

"How is that ethical? Even a little bit?"

"It's not," she says. "It's why I quit last year. The second I had enough money saved to take care of my mother, I was done."

"But?"

"But Evie kept taking their calls. I had only told her about ReBrand maybe six months before that. She seemed interested, but not so much so that I thought she wouldn't believe me when I told her I'd been wrong about it. But even when I warned her, when I told her that Top Tier is a whole different animal, that they would try to keep her involved in the company any way they could…I didn't know specifics about that part of things even then, even when I quit. But I knew enough to know it wasn't good. When I was there, there wasn't a single Top Tier that didn't lose everything—their platform, their voice, their career…"

"It was either that or…" She takes a deep breath. "Or they just disappeared."

I want to feel relieved that I'm being pointed in a specific direction finally, that someone is on my side now, believing that Evie isn't safe. But how can I trust her now? How can I trust this?

"And you didn't go to the detectives any of this?"

"I made a point not to trust the police a long time ago," she says. I don't blame her. "And I couldn't very well trust your mother, could I?"

She raises an eyebrow, like she's testing me, trying to see if I'm on the same page as my mother.

"No," I say. "You couldn't."

"And, truthfully, I was confused at first," she said. "A month before she disappeared, Evie told me that she and Gavin were going to expose ReBrand, to dig deep into what exactly they were doing to people. I was relieved. That Gavin was going to go there. Him, though. Not her. But when she disappeared, I thought…I don't know, maybe she took his place. Then there were his absurd videos. I messaged you, anyway. And when you didn't reply, I worried that maybe you and Erin were more similar than I had realized. That Evie shouldn't have trusted you, either."

"You think my mom didn't want to find her?"

"Not that," she says, carefully. "I just knew that with your mom…the business was always going to come first. If she knew about ReBrand and how the media would foam at the mouth over a story like that…well, I'm sure it wouldn't take long before I was sued and Evie wasn't even the priority anymore."

I think of Gavin, how he had been so cautious about how the internet would respond if he kept searching for Evie. How I had wondered why that mattered. Shouldn't all of these people feel exactly like me? I would do anything to find Evie, would lose anything. Risk anything.

Charlie is staring at her hands now, smoothing and resmoothing the same section of her dress.

"She wouldn't know a message from someone who truly knew her daughter if she saw it, anyway."

There's a hum of bitterness in her voice, just barely breaking through the surface. But I hear it. She's not the first person who thinks they could have done a better job with Evie than my mom has. The fact that maybe she's the first person who's tried unsettles me. There are boundaries, aren't there? Between teacher and student. Therapist and client.

"So that's why you sent the photo of the doll," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

She nods.

"I do really hate that thing."

"I do, too, frankly," she says. "But I thought if I didn't buy it, there was no telling whose hands it would end up in. I can imagine the man—forgive the presumption, but it's always a man, isn't it?—who sent it to her seeing it for sale and spinning into a wild rage. Feeling slighted. And honestly, I also looked at it as some…I don't know, some way for her to take ownership of the horrible things that have happened to her. When I showed it to her, she laughed. Told me that you hated it more than almost anything. That if I ever needed to get your attention, just send you a photo."

I have more questions than I can get out: Was Charlie just…searching for Evie memorabilia on the internet? Did she have Google Alerts set up? Was she in bidding wars with other fans? My eyes drift toward the door again, the lock.

But there's another thing: why would Evie need her to get my attention?

"I thought she was joking," Charlie adds. "But it's a very Evie thing, isn't it? I think sometimes she made things much more complicated and obscure than they had to be just to see if someone was truly paying attention. If they really cared enough to figure out whatever secret code she had created—to see her, not her as a brand, or the character she played when she was growing up."

I think of Evie drawing on walls. The elaborate lies she had occasionally spun. But none of this answers the biggest question I have.

"So where is she, then, Charlie?"

Charlie gets up, shuffling to a bookshelf and pulling out a paperback novel. She flips through the pages and stops when she gets to the center, handing me a tiny sheet of paper with an address written down in neat cursive.

"This is all I have." She shrugs. "It's my best guess, anyway. Somewhere in Joshua Tree, where they have the company retreat every year. I never made it there, but I was looped into an old email chain at one point and…well, maybe it will help."

I glance at the paper, the letters smooth and sloping. Even Charlie's handwriting feels comforting, I think, before reminding myself of the facts. The chain of events. The doll. The way she is the person who started all of this, who could have fixed things so much sooner.

"Why not go yourself?" I snap. "Why message me? Why wait?"

A flash of shame moves across her face. "I had seen them go after other employees for breaking their contracts, their NDAs…" she says. "I thought we'd lose the house. Everything. If my mother got sick again, and I was battling impossible lawsuits at the same time, I would be in over my head so quickly. I would drown."

I want to feel something for her now. I know what it feels like to live on the edge of something, to feel that if one thing goes wrong, your whole life will come crumbling down. But all I can feel is that she's another person who let my sister down.

"So that's why you messaged me, then," I say. "Because I had less to lose."

"No," she says, firmly. "I messaged you because she loved you more than anyone. And I figured that went both ways."

It's the first time in weeks someone has confirmed what I've always felt, and it feels like relief. I study the piece of paper in my hand, the address. What if this is a trap, though? A way to get me out the door. I could think of a handful of other reasons why Charlie would have the doll, none of them good. My eyes drift up the stairs and Charlie follows my gaze.

"I know you don't trust me," she says. "I wouldn't either. I wouldn't trust anyone if I had been through what you have, dear."

"It's fine," I say. "I'm fine."

Am I?

"Would it make you feel better if you heard it in her own words?" she says. "All of it?"

I stop breathing for a second, imagining Evie making some grand entrance. I know that can't be what Charlie means, but I want it so badly. I want to tell my sister that I'm sorry I missed so much, all of this. Instead I stare at Charlie with skepticism.

"Come, dear," she says, making her way toward the stairs, gesturing for me to follow.

I know there's danger in this, but my curiosity wins the battle against my fear, and I follow her. We walk through a hallway lined with more photos and art and then into a bedroom, everything neatly in its place. A guest room, maybe. An old cast-iron bed sits in the corner, pushed against the wall like a day bed, a thick, pillowy comforter spread on top of it, covered with linen blankets and throw pillows. Charlie is going straight for something else in the room, though. A large wooden chest, clearly an antique. It looks like it belongs in a shipwreck, not in a house in the middle of the suburbs of Los Angeles. Before I can say anything, she's on her knees, opening it with a lock.

Inside are journals. Hundreds of them. My sister's journals.

I think of yesterday at my mom's. Her boxes full of photocopies. I always knew Evie could write—I had seen it in emails, texts, the rare long caption. It was part of why Ashlyn's theory about the newsletters didn't surprise me, once I really let myself think about it. So how could I have been so dumb to not realize my sister would want to write somewhere else? Somewhere just for her. All these words.

"Here they are," she says. "You know, I don't know for certain that they'll explain everything…or if you even have time for everything, but I imagine they might make you understand her a little bit more. Or understand why she kept all of these with me instead of…anywhere else.

I know what she means is "Instead of at home," or "Instead of with your mom," but what I really hear is: Instead of with you.

"It started in school, of course," she goes on. "During our counseling sessions—she asked me to keep them safe, even after she went on to high school and I moved away. It took her years to tell me it was because she didn't trust your mother not to read them."

I lean down and pick up the journal closest to me. The cover is leather, sage green. I begin to open it and then hesitate—am I any different than my mom? Is invading Evie's privacy wrong, even now? Even if it's so I can find her?

Charlie seems to feel my pause.

"You know, I recommended journaling to a lot of kids I worked with over the years, and I never opened a single one. Not once. I couldn't bring myself to do it, even when I knew it would help me do my job better. To understand what was happening in these kids' lives, their hearts. But when Evie was reported missing, I did read this most recent one, and I think you should too. Before you go find her."

She puts her hand on my shoulder then as she stands, and at first I think it's just to steady herself as she gets up from the floor, but it feels comforting, warm. Like she's steadying me, too. I know there's some part of me that craves exactly this: A person to call me dear. To gently lead me to a room where I feel safe. To pour me a cup of tea, slice a piece of banana bread, slather it in butter. To tell me about the birds in their garden. To make me feel like I'm in precisely the right place. To remind me that I don't have to perform or pretend here, either. Evie needed it more, I remind myself. She needed this person and place more.

"I'm sure you're anxious to get on the road," Charlie says from the doorway. "But take all the time you need."

I've spent so many hours of the past weeks wanting to crack open my sister's brain, to spill it all out and see what I missed. And now…here it is.

I tell myself I'll look at only one of the journals. The most recent one. I look at the first page and see the date.

December 12, 2022.

Six months to the day before she disappeared.

I run my hand over Evie's familiar handwriting, comforted seeing her loopy letters, the way they all connect in a way that only half resembles cursive. The first sentence is bigger than the rest of the text, taking up two or three lines instead of just one. It's underlined in bright red pen.

I was right.