Capturing this used to be my life. All those nights I’d stayed up while my hand cramped, my shoulder a ball of agony, feverishly drawing because a vision was in me and would not forfeit possession of my body till it had emptied every last demon ounce of itself through my fingers—gone. Now all I could do was take a photo, flat and hyperreal, devoid of imperfection, of guts and pain and nerve. Of me.

I got to the café early and chose a corner seat.

Max arrived soon after, and while he stood in a hot white bar of sun at the door, I stared. He wore a tailored summer suit sans tie. His tan turned his eyes searing blue.

“Vada,” he said warmly. “You look beautiful. May I?”

I nodded, not trusting my voice. He sat and ordered two beers, smiling the whole time.

“It’s funny,” he said, rolling up his shirt cuffs. “I was about to ask you to dinner. You beat me to the punch.”

“This isn’t a date.”

“Date?” His smile turned patronizing. “You’re a bit young for me.”

“I wasn’t too young the other night.”

He held my gaze. “I’m sorry about that. I crossed a line.”

“What line?”

“We’re friends. I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Friends don’t secretly record each other, Max.”

“Friends don’t break into each other’s houses, either.”

Well, shit.

The waitress set two sweating amber bottles on the table. Max raised a toast.

“To a beautiful day, and a beautiful woman with her whole life ahead of her.”

The bottle shook in my hand. I put it down without sipping.

Max watched me as he drank, his eyes glimmering like the sea refracting sun. I waited till the waitress took our orders before I began.

“Look. I thought we were actually friends, Max. I opened up to you. Trusted you. Was this whole thing some sick game? How long have you been recording me?”

“A few months.”

Nausea twisted in my belly. “Why?”

“First, it’s a home security system. I have a lot of valuable assets on my property.”

“Why were you recording me?”

He reached across the table. When his hand covered mine I was so shocked I let him. Light touch, but enveloping.

“This may sound strange, and I don’t expect you to understand. But when you’re around, I feel like a parent again, in some ways. As if my life isn’t so pointless.”

“Parents don’t record their kids for jerk-off material.”

His hand lifted. “It’s nothing like that. All I wanted was to hear your voice.” His eyes drifted past me. “It’s good to hear a familiar voice sometimes. The house is so quiet now.”

Our food arrived. I felt too unsettled to eat, but made myself take a bite of the lobster roll. Tangy lemon butter, sweet meat breaking on my tongue. Memories flooded back. When we first came to Maine, Elle and I had gone on a lobster roll rampage, trying them at every diner we could find. She made a chart and graded them. Such a nerd. I teased her, and sketched her in ballpoint on napkins stained with Saturn rings of ale. She saved the napkins. She saved every sketch I ever did of her.

“Are you that vain?” I said, mocking.

“I’m fascinated by the way you see me.”

“How is that, pajarito?”

She spun the napkin around. “Look.”

It was a quick thumbnail sketch, the shadows hatched with tiny crosses. Her head turned in profile, her short hair and sharp jaw making her boyish.

“When you draw me, your hand sees this. But your eyes see something different.”

“What does that mean?” I said, but she took the napkin and pressed it into her notebook, leaving me in the booth, bewildered.

(—Bergen, Vada. Nighthawks in Maine. Ink on paper.)

Max sipped his beer and said, “You stole Ryan’s laptop.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

By the time he got home, it’d be back as if we’d never touched it.

“I won’t press charges. Maybe Ellis can crack the password.” He smiled. “I’m not good with technology. I’m a mechanical guy. I understand moving parts.”

“I really don’t have the slightest idea what—”

“You’ve always been candid, Vada. I admire that.” He sloshed the beer in his bottle. “Don’t put on a show for me.”

Those words. Those words didn’t belong in his mouth.

“Listen,” I said, “I came here to tell you I’m not okay with this shit. I don’t care what you do to me, just leave Ellis alone. She doesn’t remember the accident. If you have questions, you ask me. But my answers aren’t going to change.”

“I don’t want to question you. I want to protect you.”

“Huh?”

“I was in your shoes once. Someone lied to me about something very important. It destroyed my world.”

“What are you talking about?”

Max reclined in his chair, sighing. “Vada, ask yourself why you’re defending a liar.”

I blinked.

“Tell me your girlfriend’s full name.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” I said automatically.

“Okay, ‘friend.’ What’s her full name? Humor me, please.”

“Ellis Morgan Carraway. Why are you—”

“ ‘Ellis Morgan Carraway’ didn’t exist until five years ago. There isn’t a single record of her.”

Heat rose in me. “Now you’re digging into her records?”

He crossed his arms. A whiff of cologne drifted toward me, cedars and sawdust. “If you were in my position, you would, too. You’d want to know everything about the last moments of your son’s life.”

“Her personal records have nothing to do with it.”

“They have something to do with you, Vada. And the danger you’re in.”

“What danger? Are you going to sue us?”

“No one said anything about that. But listen to yourself.” He cocked his head. “You instinctively defend her, instead of asking about the name. You’re blind to it.”

“To what?” I spit.

“Who she really is.”

“This is ridiculous. Five years ago she was a minor. Of course there are no records.”

“Not even a birth certificate.”

“That means nothing. Her parents are religious zealots. They could’ve—”

“Who are her parents? Their full names.”

I shifted in my chair. “Why are you asking me? This is all on Google.”

“You don’t know. You’ve never actually searched it, have you? You took her word.” He spread his hands. “I hired an investigator in Chicago. Her father is Klaus Zoeller, her mother is Katherine Brennan. She has no blood relations named Carraway.”

Adrenaline coursed through me, the cold tingle in my hands and feet making me feel invincible. Like I could tear the wooden table apart. “You hired someone to go after Elle. In what reality did you think I’d be okay with this?”

“I saw the signs. I knew you were blind to it, so I entertained a hunch. And I was right.”

“This is betrayal, Max. You betrayed me. I’ll fight tooth and nail before I let you touch her.”

“Listen to yourself.”

“You have nothing.” I gripped the table’s edge, feeling no pain in my right arm, for once. “You can’t pin anything on her. You’ll have to go through me first.”

And I still had cards up my sleeve. Including the ace. My last resort.

“I’m not the threat, Vada,” Max said softly. “Look at the big picture. Really look.”

Again I thought of Elle spinning that sketch around, saying, Look.

“Occam’s razor,” she said once, “isn’t exactly what people think. It doesn’t say that the simplest solution is the correct one. It says that when you’re making a guess about something, make the fewest assumptions possible.”

Her favorite book was The Great Gatsby. For her eighteenth birthday she went to New York, to see where Nick Carraway and his friends had lived. To the libraries and museums, because she was a nerd. The Morgan was her favorite—it looked like something out of Harry Potter. And of course she went to Ellis Island, because obviously.

Obviously.

She’d made her name up.

“What’s her real name?” I said.