“They don’t even know where you are,” I say. “Really, Aislin, are we using your family as some kind of example?”

It’s harsh. It’s thoughtless. I know it as soon as I say it.

“Actually, they do know where I am,” Aislin says evenly. “Or at least where I was. I told them I was staying with you up in Tiburon. It’s not my fault I’m not there anymore.”

I absolutely should drop it. But I’m exhausted. I’m confused. I have all kinds of great excuses. “Gee, sorry my problems got in the way of my saving your butt.”

Right there, I stick the knife in our friendship. The one thing I never wanted to be was the bitch of a rich girl.

I hate myself. It’s immediate, I don’t have to think about it, I hate myself. I want to cut my own tongue out. But it’s too late.

There’s a long silence. Aislin gives me time to take it back. But I don’t. And I don’t know why, except that I’m so hating myself I feel like I deserve her anger.

She heads inside. I stand, gripping the railing, thinking how unfair it is that I’m having to hate myself when I really just want to hate my mother.

The door opens again and Aislin comes back out, carrying her purse. She brushes by me.

I say … I say nothing. I’m that messed up. I say nothing.

It’s some kind of overload. Too much of too much. I have the feeling I desperately need to cry. And I just don’t have it in me to deal with another crisis.

I hear her shoes moving away down the pier. Then she’s gone.

Self-pity rushes over me. Can’t she see that I need her to stick with me? Doesn’t she know what I’ve been through? I was nearly killed. I found out my mother’s a criminal. I escaped with my life from some creep who works for my mom.

Or at least, Solo escaped. And took us with him.

Am I a hundred percent sure he’s told me the truth? I don’t even know him. One kiss—even that kiss—doesn’t make us best friends forever.

No, bitch, your BFF just walked away.

Well, I’m sick of Aislin’s neediness. And I’m suddenly wondering if I’m just being manipulated by Solo. After all, he’s good with technology. Maybe all those pictures were a fake. Maybe this is all some elaborate fraud to let him hurt my mother. He hates her enough to do it.

Maybe I just need to grab a taxi and get back to Spiker and tell my mother …

No. No, I know that’s bull. I healed in days from something that should have taken months. That much, at least, is true.

And my gut tells me those pictures were real.

They return to me, unwanted, like some hideous slide show. The pig. The girl. That tattooed freak, standing in the room of freaks.

The tattooed guy. It clicks: He’s the same guy who came rushing from Solo’s room.

Maybe he’s the bad guy. Maybe he’s guilty and my mother is innocent.

As bad as that is, it would be so much better than the alternative.

At least I owe her a chance to explain. Right?

I’m freezing. I’m going to get my phone and call her. I’ve turned off the tracking so she can’t use it to find me. There’s no risk.

I have to give her the chance. She may be a cold bitch, but she is, still, my mother.

And if she can’t explain? Then I give Solo the flash drive.

Inside the warehouse it’s not much warmer, but it’s some improvement, at least. I go to my purse.

Solo is no longer on the couch. He must be … He must be where, exactly?

“Solo.” Nothing. “Solo?”

I know then. I begin the careful, then increasingly desperate, search that will confirm what I already know: The flash drive is gone.

And so is Solo.

– 32 –

I am familiar with the ferry, though I’ve never been here before. A driver has dropped me off at the pier. I have a wallet with money. I have a credit card, too. I have a phone that does everything. It even answers my questions.

I know each of these things, just as I know where to buy the ferry ticket, and how to go aboard. I know in advance what the terminal looks like on the other side of the bay—the bay that I also know even though I should not.

The ferry leaves from Tiburon, which is Spanish for “shark.” I don’t speak Spanish, but I know what that word means.

I’m a few minutes early. There’s a coffee shop full of early morning commuters.

Do I like coffee? I don’t know.

Terra Spiker says I absorbed well. My intelligence is functioning well. My body works. But no one has yet told me what I like or dislike. I only know that I love and care for Evening Spiker. She made me.

I walk into the coffee shop. I know how to order. It almost feels as if I have ordered before, but I haven’t. It’s puzzling.

I reach the counter. A woman is taking orders. Her eyes open wide. Her pupils dilate. She swallows hard.

“What would you like?” Her voice catches.

“Coffee. A cappuccino.”

“Anything else? A pastry?”

“No. Not a pastry.”

“That’ll be three dollars and ten cents.”

I count out some money.

I wait for my coffee. People stare at me. Some of the men don’t like me. Some of the men do. All of the women like me. Some of them pretend not to notice me, but they steal a glance, then look away.

A couple joins the group of people waiting for their orders, a young man, maybe twenty, and a girl, maybe a little younger. The girl looks at me and her mouth opens. The boy moves between us, blocking the girl from view. She steps out from behind him. She’s smiling just a little. She bites her lower lip.