BREATHLESS, MALACHI REACHED Reza's car, where Auntie Isabel waited. He'd called her as they ran; she must have been closer to the car than they were. Reza heaved behind him. Malachi threw open the passenger door and collapsed in the seat. Reza keeled over a nearby trash can and vomited.

"What is it?" Auntie Isabel turned to face Malachi, her eyebrows knitted together, frowning. Malachi could see the worry in her eyes, the denial—it couldn't be. "Malachi? Did you find something?"

Malachi shut his eyes. He tried to block out the memory of Mila's bloodied and torn clothes, strewn about the forest floor and hanging from branches. Of the fort they used to play in as kids, smashed to pieces. Of the blood. So much blood. And the flies. Dear God, the flies. He nodded. He was so sick to his stomach, even the tiny motion sent waves of nausea rocking through him. Any minute now he'd join Reza at the trash can.

Auntie Isabel grabbed hold of Malachi's arm. She shook him, causing his stomach to roil. Her fingers dug into his coat. "What did you find?"

The other kids were out there searching in the dark woods with their flashlights and nothing to protect them, unaware of the absolute shit-show he and Reza had stumbled upon.

"We need to get everyone out of there," Malachi mumbled.

"Why?" Auntie Isabel demanded, her eyes wild. "Malachi, answer me! What the fuck did you find?"

"... not safe," Malachi explained, shaking his head. "... need to get them out."

Malachi fumbled for his phone in his pocket and pulled it out with shaking hands. He dialed Adrian's number and looked to Auntie Isabel to call Becca. She watched him, her lower lip trembling.

Reza rolled over so he was leaning backwards against the trash can, his pallid face tilted toward the sky, his mouth agape.

"Call Becca," Malachi insisted.

She shook her head, blinking her eyes hard, and buried her face in her hands. "Malachi, tell me what the fuck you found," she demanded. "Now."

Malachi sank low in his seat, folding his arms over his chest. He knew he wouldn't get her to call Becca until he told her. And they needed to get the others out of there. He ended the call to Adrian before it went through. "Blood," he managed, half-choking on the word. "So much blood."

"Mila's?" Auntie Isabel whispered.

Malachi nodded. A lump formed in his throat that he struggled to swallow down. "Her clothes were... in the clearing... all torn up. I know it was..." His voice came to a screeching halt as a sob rose in the back of his throat.

"Malachi..." Her voice wavered. "This can't be..."

Malachi could only bring himself to shake his head. It was all he could do to without vomiting or bursting into tears.

Auntie Isabela mechanically turned her head forward. Squeezing her eyes shut, she pursed her lips and took a long, deep inhale. Then she slammed her forehead into the steering wheel. A resounding constant HOOOOOOOONK shook the ear. She screamed even louder than the horn, so loud that Malachi's head vibrated and his vision spun. He winced and covered his ears. Just as he was almost used to the sound, she lifted her head up. The horn quieted. She slammed her fists into the steering wheel. Several short, sharp HONKs knocked Malachi's head around. She pressed her forehead back into the horn, her hands falling still. The cycle began again. She screamed.

Reza jogged over to the car, pulling open Malachi's door and sticking his head inside. Sweat gleamed on his forehead. He reeked of vomit, and a couple chunks smeared across his sweatshirt. "Did something happen? Is everything okay?"

Of course something happened, Malachi thought. Her daughter was missing. They'd likely found the crime scene. His anger flared red hot in Reza's direction—because he was there and easy to take his anger out on and it was all he knew how to do. But he swallowed his anger and whispered, "I told her."

Auntie Isabel stopped screaming. Her head stayed on the steering wheel, causing the horn to keep honking. She fell still and quiet, which unnerved Malachi even deeper than the scream.

Malachi redialed Adrian's number and shakily pressed his phone to his ear. While it rang, snapshots of what he'd seen pulsed in his brain. He wished he could wipe it all away—and delete it like a memory card.

"Call Becca," he told Reza.

***

WHEN EACH GROUP CAME OUT OF THE WOODS, Auntie Isabel sent them home in Ubers she paid for with the promise they would text her when they got back safely. Malachi and Reza stayed behind—Reza offering up his car for a safe place for them to wait. Malachi sat in the passenger seat staring straight ahead. Reza sat behind him, flicking open and shutting a switchblade. Malachi wondered where, the everloving fuck, he'd gotten it and why, the everloving fuck, he had it. But he didn't say anything, didn't ask any questions. He knew if he spoke, he'd explode.

Auntie Isabel turned to face Malachi. The watery light from the flickering streetlight washed over her, making her look smaller and paler than she'd ever seemed before. Her eyes were bloodshot, her face puffy and tearstained. "You two should get back to your dorm," she insisted. "I need to—"

"No." Malachi shook his head. "Mila..." he mumbled, pulling at his sweater's collar, unable to find the words. "... need to be here."

She smiled sadly, shutting her eyes. "You need to get some rest, sweets. It's nearly morning."

He shrugged. "... wouldn't be able to sleep anyway."

She wiped at the tears dripping down her cheeks. "I don't even know what I'm going to do." She turned to face Reza. "We'll... why don't you get yourself back to campus, sweets? Malachi and I can catch an Uber later on."

"No," Reza said. Malachi's head shot up. Is this kid for real? "I wouldn't want you guys to have to wait in this dark parking lot without a car... and I don't really want to drive back to campus by myself."

Malachi shot a death stare over his shoulder. Anger burned bright in his veins. What was Reza thinking? Inserting himself into their tragedy? What was he, a glutton for their pain?

Auntie Isabel threw her hands up. "Okay. You can stay with us. But I have a feeling we'll be out all night. I don't know what to do. I just—my daughter—"

"I never sleep," Reza confessed, and the bags under his eyes seemed to agree.

Malachi folded his arms over his chest. Every emotion he was feeling—his fear over Mila, his horror at what they'd found, his grief at what had more than likely happened to her—funnelled into anger at Reza. He wasn't exactly sure how else to deal with all these emotions, had never felt anything so strongly before—not since... no, he didn't want to think about that. Not now. Not ever again.

Auntie Isabel ran her fingers over the steering wheel. "I want to see it," she whispered.

"What?" Reza asked.

"I want to see it," she repeated. "What happened to my daughter. When the police eventually get involved... Lord, they're gonna get involved whether I want them to or not, aren't they? This is all so fucked." She shook her head. "I don't want them to mess up or cover this up as something it isn't. I want to see it with my own two eyes."

Malachi's bookbag slumped against his ankles. He reached down and pulled it into his lap, rooting through it until he found his handheld camera. "I'll record it," he suggested, recoiling at how morbid it sounded. "So we have documented evidence in case they..."

Auntie Isabel took a deep breath, crossed herself and mumbled in Spanish, then opened the car door. Malachi followed her lead.

***

REZA LED Auntie Isabel to the clearing. Malachi lagged behind, fiddling with his camera. He didn't want to relive any of this again, but he knew he needed to. Someone needed to document the evidence, and he was the one with the camera. Filming the crime scene like he'd always filmed Mila. A lump formed in the back of his throat. He'd hit the record button the second they'd left the car, not wanting to miss anything.

His best friend was missing, and this was what he was worried about. Collecting evidence so the police wouldn't mess up. The whole system was broken. He should have been passing out flyers or hiding under the covers at home, trusting the "experts" to find her. But instead he was out here. Doing their job for them, one step ahead, the camera always rolling. They would have no chance to mess up. Not on his watch.

He held the camera up to his eye and squinted at the dark, looming shapes of trees through it. Leaves and sticks crunched underfoot. He felt like he had a red twine wound around his ankle, hooking him to Reza's car, to relative safety. The farther he got from the car, the more taut the string got, until it was in danger of snapping and incapacitating him. It was a constant force tugging him away from the woods. He couldn't listen.

Reza broke through the last barrier of trees before the clearing. He stepped out of the way and turned to face the woods. Malachi's stomach roiled. The scent of blood filled his nostrils, even though he knew it couldn't be possible, he had to be imagining it...

Malachi stepped into the clearing. He pressed his camera against one eye and squeezed the other shut; he only wanted to see this place through his camera lens—as if that would make this any less real. He walked ahead of Auntie Isabel, who sniffled behind him, and filmed everything he saw—the clearing; the destroyed fort; her torn and bloodied clothes, strewn from one end of the clearing to the next. As he made his sweep, he couldn't shake the feeling that something about the crime scene felt off. Like something, other than the obvious, was wrong. Like something was missing, or like he was missing something.

And then it hit him.

Where were her shoes?

He froze with his camera trained on the river.

Her shoes would be here if something had happened. She knew enough about true crime to know, if someone attacked her, to leave a shoe behind. One at the scene of the crime, one in the car. They'd talked about this before. He knew she would have left a shoe behind. Especially since all the rest of her clothes were here. If some shit-stain had carried her away in the nude, why would they leave her shoes on?

But he scoured the clearing and he had it all on video and he knew he wasn't imagining things and her shoes weren't there.

He tried rationalizing with himself. Maybe she'd been drugged and unconscious. Maybe she'd had no time. Maybe she'd had bigger things to worry about. Maybe her attacker had placed the scene. Maybe something had happened before she'd had the chance. Maybe they'd forced her to keep her shoes on, for whatever reason—maybe they'd wanted her to walk. Maybe maybe maybe. But he couldn't shake how wrong it was, how obscene it seemed that her shoes were missing. It just didn't feel right, though none of this did.

He turned and found Auntie Isabel with her head in her hands near Reza, who was still decidedly not looking at the scene. Malachi picked his way over to them, careful not to step on anything that could potentially contaminate the evidence.

But wasn't he already contaminating the evidence? Investigators always wore a protective layer over their shoes. What if he was messing up the case before it even began? But he knew the NYPD. He knew all cops. And that was why he was doing this. The NYPD was corrupt. They couldn't trust them—or any cops. If they wanted this done right, if they wanted to find Mila and bring her home safely, they had to do this themselves. The cops would contaminate the evidence just by rubbing their greedy little hands all over it. Still, he was cautious of where he stepped.

"Oh, Malachi!" Auntie Isabel cried, throwing her arms around his shoulders and burying her face in his neck, her tears soaking through his coat.

Malachi froze, taken off-guard. He was not a hugger. He was not a toucher. He liked his personal space. Awkwardly, he wrapped his arms around her waist and patted her on the back. She was so similar in size to Mila, petite and athletic, he could almost pretend he was hugging her instead.

Mila.

A steely resolve formed in his mind, knocking out all other thoughts.

Mila was missing.

Malachi was going to find her.

No matter the cost.