The next text, and the pictures attached to it, make my heart stop.

This one is almost professional-grade, as if it had been styled and lighted. Dara is sitting on a red sofa in a room almost barren of furniture. There’s an AC unit in one corner, and a window, although it’s so coated in grime, I can’t see beyond it. Dara is dressed in nothing but her underwear; her arms are stiff by her sides, so that her breasts, and the small dark spots of her nipples, are center frame. Her eyes are focused on something to the left of the camera and her head is tilted, like it often is when she’s listening. I imagine, immediately, a person standing behind the camera—maybe more than one person—calling instructions to her.

Put your arms down, sweetheart. Show us what you got.

The next picture is a close-up: only her torso is visible. She’s tilting her head back, eyes half-closed, sweat dampening her neck and clavicle.

Both pictures were sent from a phone number I don’t recognize, an East Norwalk phone number, on March 26.

The day before the accident. I have the feeling of finally hitting ground after a long fall. The breath goes out of me and yet, weirdly, I feel a sense of relief, of finally touching solid earth, of knowing.

This is it: somehow, in these pictures, the mystery of the accident is contained, and the explanation for Dara’s subsequent behavior, for the silences and disappearances.

Don’t ask me how I know. I just do. If you don’t understand that, I guess you’ve never had a sister.

MARCH 2

Dara’s Diary Entry

Everyone’s always accusing me of loving to be the center of attention.

But you know what? Sometimes I wish I could just disappear.

I remember one time when I was little and Nick got mad because I broke her favorite music box, a gift from Mamu. I told her it was an accident, but it really wasn’t. I’ll admit it, I was jealous. Mamu hadn’t given me anything. No big surprise there, right? Nick was always the favorite.

Afterward I felt bad, though. Really bad. I remember I ran away and hid in Parker’s tree house with a plan to live up there forever. Of course I got hungry after an hour or so and came down. I’ll never forget how good it felt to see Mom and Dad walking the streets together with a flashlight, calling my name.

I guess that’s the really nice thing about disappearing: the part where people look for you and beg you to come home.

Nick

10:15 p.m.

A fist hits the window and I jump, letting out a yelp. A flashlight skates across the glass. The security guard gestures for me to roll down the window.

“You okay?” he says. I recognize him as one of the men who was standing by the gates, making sure everyone left in an orderly fashion. He probably has instructions to clear the lot, too. My eyes tick to the dashboard. I’ve been sitting in the car for more than twenty minutes.

“I’m fine,” I say. The guard looks as though he doesn’t believe me. He angles a flashlight up to my face, practically blinding me, probably to check my pupils and make sure I’m not drunk or high. I manage to smile. “Really. I was just leaving.”

“All right, then,” he says, rapping the outside of my car once with his knuckles, for emphasis. “Just make sure you finish texting before you get on the road.”

I realize I’m still gripping Dara’s phone in my hand. “I will,” I say, as he turns, satisfied, back toward the gates. I roll up the window again, twist the key in the ignition, punch on the AC. The security guard’s words have given me an idea.

I pull up the East Norwalk number attached to the two almost-naked photographs and paste it into a new text. For a minute I sit there, debating, typing and erasing. Finally, I settle on a simple: Hey. You around?

It’s a crazy gamble, a shot in the dark. I’m not even expecting a response. But almost immediately, Dara’s phone dings. I feel a rush of adrenaline all the way to my fingertips.

Who is this?

I ignore that. Was looking at our pictures again, I write. And then: They’re pretty hot. I wipe sweat from my forehead with the inside of my wrist.

For a minute, the phone stays silent. My heart is beating so hard, I can hear it. Then, just as I’m about to give up and put the car in drive, the phone buzzes twice.

Srsly who is this?

I’ve been unconsciously holding my breath. Now I exhale, a big rush of air, feeling a little like a balloon that has just been punctured.

Rationally, I know that the photographs probably don’t mean anything. Dara got drunk, she took her clothes off, she let some creep snap some pictures, and now he doesn’t even remember. End of story. I can’t explain the feeling, nagging, persistent, that there’s some connection here, a way of sewing up the story of the past four months and making sense of it. It’s the same feeling I get when I’m trying to remember the lyrics to a song that keeps looping through my head somewhere just out of reach.

I write DARA, all caps, and leave it at that.

One minute passes, then two. Even though the security guard’s face is lost in darkness, I can tell he’s watching me.

Ding.

You think this is a fucking joke?

Before I can figure out how to respond, another text comes in.

I don’t know what u think ur playing at but u better be careful.

And then another.

This is serious shit whatever u know u better keep ur mouth shut or else!!!

The security guard is moving toward me again. I throw Dara’s phone in the cup holder, hard, as if I can shatter it and shatter the messages there, too. I put the car in drive and find myself halfway up the coast before I even realize I’ve started for home. I’m going way too fast—sixty-five, according to the speedometer—and I slam on the brakes, blood thumping in my ears and air pounding outside my windows, mirroring the distant noise of the surf.