Max

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“Did you try MattDanbury, capital M, capital D?” Carson drops onto the couch, groaning as he sinks into the cushions.

“Hours ago. You were there.”

He swipes his hand over his eyes. “Can’t remember them all. We must’ve tried a million. Face it: we’re stuck waiting for the cops.”

He’s probably right. But I can’t give up. Kate’s out there somewhere, scared, maybe hurt. I stare at the screen, bleary-eyed. If I can’t manage a simple feat of social engineering, what good am I?

“For all we know, it’s, like...A, dollar sign, two, three, A-S-D-Q. One of those random-ass passwords.”

“It’s not.”

“How do you know?”

“’Cause it’s not. Wes is sentimental. Fixated on the past. He’d use a word. Or words. Ones that mean something to him.” I type in blackmailandmurder2007. No dice. The iCloud logo reloads, blue and puffy.

“This is stupid.” Carson sits up again, reaching for his coffee. “Even if we do get in, even if Apple lets us track his phone, we’ll find it in a trash can. I’d have tossed mine by now, in his shoes.”

“Because you’re some big expert on kidnapping and murder?”

“Compared to you? Yeah.”

I’m not getting sucked into a pissing contest. “Come on. What haven’t we tried?”

“I don’t know.” He takes a swig of his coffee, grimacing at the taste. “Eugh. Cold. Uh...favorite food?”

“Cannelloni. We did that.”

“Fuck...first girlfriend? When’d he lose his virginity?”

“No idea.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “There was some girl after Kate left, but I don’t think they... What was her name?”

“Oh—Candace. Candace...Marshall?”

I try a few variants of that: no luck. “What’s his favorite song?”

“How should I know?” Carson swills more coffee. Sits up, sputtering. “No, wait. It’s some old Sicilian thing. Reminds him of his granddad. He used to sing it when he was trying to get to sleep.”

I raise a brow. “When’d you guys sleep together?”

“In high school. And we didn’t sleep together—I slept over. After the locker room thing. He had nightmares, or so he said.” Carson looks away, visibly uncomfortable. “Anyway. Yeah. Google, like, Sicilian music.”

“What, all Sicilian music?”

“I don’t know. It was, uh...hold on.” He hums to himself. “I knew the words at one point. I just need to...something like...vinni la primavera, la-la-la-la, la-la, la—I don’t know.”

“Don’t suppose you could spell that?”

“Sure. And I’m great at calculus, too.”

I flip him off. “Sing it again. I’ll see if Google can decipher it.”

Carson sings. I type. My first effort’s gibberish; my second returns a list of wineries. Not that crawling into a bottle wouldn’t feel good, but I need a song.

“Try vinni with two Ns.”

I do it. A YouTube video pops up—Si maritau Rosa. I press play, and a mournful tune fills the room. “This the one?”

“Yeah—yeah. That’s it.” He hums along, getting into the melody. “So type it in. What are you waiting for?”

Absolutely nothing. I try simaritaurosa, SiMaritauRosa, and—

“Ho-ly shit.” Carson leans over my shoulder. “That’s actually it?”

“Looks like it.” I can hardly believe it myself. “So I just need to do Find My Phone, and—”

“Wait.”

“What now?”

“Won’t it notify him if you do that? Send him an e-mail or something?”

Shit. Maybe. I don’t know. “Will it?”

“I think so.”

Awkward. But short of waiting for the cops, we’re out of options. “You think he’ll really be checking his e-mail right now? When he’s finally got Kate to himself? He’s only been waiting since high school.”

Carson shrugs. “I’m not stopping you. But we should go right away, if this works.”

Wasn’t planning on dawdling. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

I reach for the trackpad. “Here goes nothing.”