“We’ll still talk to Bailey no matter what, but . . . I just need to think for a little bit.”

“I got it. I’ll just drive. I love driving.” But he doesn’t sound like someone who loves driving. He sounds like someone holding in a belch with every muscle in his body.

Golden fields. Rolling hills. Glimpses of sparkling lakes. It’s beautiful country, but the last leg of their little road trip feels interminable all of a sudden, and she’s shifting in her seat by the time they’re coming down out of the hills and into Paso Robles, Altamira’s classier big sister. This is where they came to see first-run movies in a nice, comfy theater when Charley was a girl—when Trina was a girl—the place they’d drive to for dinners so fancy she and Luanne would have to wear sundresses and sandals. Ah, California!

On the outside, the library looks modern and immaculate; sandstone walls banded with strips of red brick. The roof’s a cluster of pyramids covered in a kind of weathered green metal that reminds her of statues from ancient Rome. After her time in the sterile safe house and the seemingly endless twenty minutes she spent inside that repulsive roadside bar, the library’s clean, hushed interior feels like an oasis of comfort and safety.

She’d expected doubt to set in by now. Instead she feels the opposite. Her confidence builds with every step they take toward the computer lab, a double-sided row of private carrels in the middle of a shelf-filled book room, which, to her relief, is almost devoid of other people.

Luke allows her to take a seat at a carrel on the end, then pulls a chair up behind her.

If he’s losing patience with her silence, he’s managed not to show it.

The chat room welcomes her with a bare-bones layout; yellow bands on each side and dialogue flowing in languages she doesn’t recognize. Most of them Eastern European, she’s sure. She clicks on the tab that allows her to set up an instant free profile.

“Go in hot,” Luke whispers. “Remember?”

“Burning Girl isn’t exactly anonymous,” she whispers back. “Especially given current circumstances.”

“I agree. But I figure whatever name you pick, it’s gotta stand out. This thing has private messaging, right? I don’t figure he’s gonna want to hash this out in the main chat room.”

“Nah, he probably won’t.”

In the entry blank for her username she types, flamingmanureguylover.

Luke’s attempt to control his laughter turns into a little eruption of huffing breaths.

“It’s hot and it’s partly about him,” she whispers, “so I figure’ll it get his attention.”

Second later, an invite to a private chat pops up from msstocktonpresents666.

“Ms. Stockton?” Luke whispers. “What does that mean?”

“Our European history teacher. Remember? We talked about it back at your place.”

“Wow. He really was listening to everything.”

She accepts the invite, and a private chat room opens.

U have a good memory, Bailey writes.

She lifts her fingers to the keyboard.

It was a pretty good joke. Looks like you’ve graduated to bigger stuff now, she types.

Next to her, Luke gives off the energy of a coiled snake.

Big bro with you?

Yes, she types.

Tell him I’m sorry.

She lets these words sit on the screen.

Tell him he should have taken Rohm’s deal. Tell him there was never anything he could have given feds on me. I wouldn’t have put him in that position.

The breath leaves Luke so quickly she’s afraid it’s the first sign of a groan that might draw the attention of the librarian at the nearby information desk. He growls under his breath, runs his hands back through his hair.

“Tell him to go to hell,” he whispers.

“Really?” she asks.

“No.”

Guess that didn’t go over well, comes the response.

“Ask him if he’s somewhere safe,” Luke whispers.

She complies.

Yes, comes the response, very far away, safer for you if you don’t know where.

“Tell him that’s the truth because when I see him again, I’m gonna wring his neck,” Luke says.

“Really?”

“He’s better with that kind of thing than actual concern. Actual concern makes him feel . . . confined.”

Charlotte types in the response exactly as Luke worded it.

The response comes without a pause. ; ) “See?” Luke asks.

What’s your story, Burning Girl? Sounds like you’re in big trouble, too.

A minute later, her hands are still resting on her lap, and she hasn’t typed anything in response.

“Charley?” Luke whispers. “Are you going to tell him?”

??? appears on-screen a few seconds later.

Still here, she types, just give me a sec.

“He won’t believe me,” she finally says.

“I believed you.”

“You could see me. He can’t. He can’t look into my eyes and know I’m telling the truth.”

And you still haven’t seen it in action, she thinks. So you don’t really understand, either.

“Is that really it?” Luke asks.

She looks back at him, takes advantage of the connection she has with him that she can’t establish with his brother. “Not entirely, no,” she whispers. “Even if I ask him not to, he’ll probably go after them, won’t he?”

“Given his history, yeah.”

“I don’t want that. Not yet.”

“Even if he just gets information?”

“They’re expecting that. Kayla’s already run some kind of background check on Dylan, and he knows about it somehow. And there was something else he said . . .”

“What, Charley?”

“He said there was no way for me to surprise him,” she says, “now that they can see everything I’m doing.”

“Sounds about right,” Luke responds, and for the first time since she asked for silence on the drive there, she hears doubt creeping back into his voice.

“It isn’t right, though.” The words give her the confidence to lift her hands to the keyboard again. “It’s wrong. I know exactly how to surprise him.”

Still need you to find someone, she types.

Listening, comes the response.

“If they’re gonna make me do this, whoever they are,” she whispers, “I’m doing it on my terms.”

I need you to find the Mask Maker, she types.

25

“Whoa,” Luke whispers.

The serial killer in LA? Bailey answers.

“Whoa, Charley.”

She holds up a hand to silence him, then types, Yes.

She braces herself for a flood of questions about her motives, her plan.

On it, comes the response.

And that’s it.

“Wait,” she says.

“Yeah, yeah,” Luke whispers, glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone is watching them. “That sounds right. Let’s wait a minute here and just—”

Again, she holds up one hand to silence him, then types, You can find him?

I can do my best. I’ll be in touch.

That’s it???

A few seconds later, Bailey’s response: I’m like the Secret Service. I don’t discuss procedure. Better for everyone that way. Take care of my brother, i.e., don’t take any of his shit.

After a minute of radio silence, she types a string of question marks, gets nothing in response. Behind her Luke’s gathering anger takes the form of heavy breathing and the occasional unnecessary throat clearing.

Bailey’s gone. For now.

“Let’s talk,” Luke says.

“You say that like we’ve haven’t been talking all day.”

“Seriously, Charley.”

“Outside.”

His footsteps are so heavy she can hear them scraping the soft carpeting behind her. Is he that pissed, or has a rush of adrenaline made her hypersensitive to his close pursuit, to the glances from the librarians they walk past at the information desk? Is it from the nagging fear that some trace of her chat with Bailey might actually be left on that computer back there, even though she closed out every screen and Bailey picked the chat room because nothing about it was permanent?

Once they’re on the sidewalk and a good distance from the library entrance, Luke grabs her by one shoulder. A mistake, he seems to realize too late. By then their eyes have locked, and he remembers everything she told him on the ride there and holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

“Look, I gave you an out,” she says.

“A serial killer?” Luke hisses. “You’re actually going to go after a serial killer?”

“‘The world is full of bad men, Charlotte. Go find some. Show them what you can do.’ That’s what Dylan just said to me. Your brother locates criminals, so I’m just asking him to do what he’s good at. That’s all.”

“I’m not worried about my brother. I’m worried about you.”

“I appreciate that, but it was your advice, remember?”

“Go after a serial killer with a drug you don’t understand? When did I give that advice?”

“I made the choice in the middle.”

“How is that—I mean, what are you even talking about? Charley, you have to go to the authorities.”