Before She Disappeared(36)



“It’s LiLi’s penmanship,” Emmanuel confirms, still scanning the screen. “But she would not handwrite school work.”

We all resume studying. I can’t tell what Detective Lotham thinks, but I’m confused. Everyone has described Angelique as a gifted student. This essay, on the other hand, not only looks clunky and awkward as it unspools down two sheets of paper, but reads that way as well.

Never has a moment been as important in American history as the westward movement.

Going forward was the only option for settlers in search of land and a new government that needed

To expand resources. President Andrew Jackson refused to

Give up plans to eject Indians from lands west of the Mississippi even when

You would’ve thought otherwise . . .

I don’t understand. Eleven months after disappearing, this is what Angelique cares about? Finding a way to crudely complete and post an essay for high school credit? Which assumed she had at least some access to the outside world. Yet hadn’t returned home?

I’ve encountered some strange behavior in my line of work, but this has me stumped.

“Did she sign up for additional courses?” I start to ask, just as Emmanuel bolts upright and slaps the table.

“It’s code! I knew it. She sent a code! My sister sent us a message!”

“What code?” Lotham is already pulling the laptop closer, trying to decipher the riddle.

“The capitalized words at the beginning of each line on the page. Look at them.” Emmanuel starts circling words on the screen with his finger. I follow along, reading out loud.

“Never. Going. To. Give. You.” I stop. Glance at Lotham. “Isn’t that a song—”

“‘Never Gonna Give You Up’ by Rick Astley, 1987, yes, yes,” Emmanuel says quickly. He’s grabbed the detective’s spiral notebook without asking and is already jotting down the first word of each line on the page. Lotham doesn’t stop him.

“Rickrolling,” Emmanuel informs us in answer to our unasked question, still writing furiously. “It was an internet meme prank years ago. People would embed the link to the music video in various websites or news clips. It was really funny.” He waves his hand. “I told you the eighties are big.”

Lotham looks at me. I shrug, confirming we are both that old.

“LiLi didn’t care about the memes. She got excited about the paper.”

“The paper?” Lotham takes the bait.

“A quantum physics essay written by a student. It perfectly incorporated the lyrics from the entire song. LiLi loved it—the idea of a brilliantly written paper also being a joke. How clever, you know? And she liked the song, used to sing it while getting ready in the morning.”

Emmanuel’s writing suddenly falters. He glances up, his expression stark.

“These capitalized words are from the song, right?” He shows us the list of lyrics he’s scrawled down. “If you were to pay attention, knew what to look for, the message is funny. Some stupid things kids do.”

He said it, not us.

“But two words don’t belong. They’re capitalized, but they’re much further down in the essay, and they’re not part of the lyrics. She tucked them in. Hoped whoever was watching wouldn’t notice.” Emmanuel’s voice drops to a whisper as his gaze rises to meet ours. “Help Us. My sister wrote Help Us. That’s the message. Except who is us?”





CHAPTER 12




Lotham is back to his phone, a major detective working a major case. He paces the entire length of the tavern as he rips off strings of commands. I don’t have minions to order about or experts to call in, so I remain with Emmanuel. His face has shuttered. He stares at his laptop as if trying to see through it. Maybe he’s wishing he’d logged on sooner to find the note. Maybe he’s sorry he found it now.

I give him thirty seconds, then start stacking our used coffee mugs on the empty plates. “Come with me.”

“What?”

“Time to clean up.”

Emmanuel’s eyes widen. What kind of crazy person worries about dishes at a time like this? But I don’t make it a request, and he’s too well trained to defy direct orders. He follows me into the kitchen. I set him to work with the high-power spray and industrial-grade dishwashing detergent.

While he tends to the dishes, I go to work on the coffeepot, then clean up around the fryolator.

“Your sister sent that note for you,” I say.

Emmanuel pauses momentarily, then picks up the next coffee mug.

“She sent that note to you,” I continue. “She posted it, knowing you would see it. Who else would be logging into some virtual high school? Who else would think to look there, other than the younger brother who knew her that well?”

“I don’t understand. Where she went. What happened. Who she is with now. I don’t understand.”

“None of us do. But this is good, Emmanuel. It’s contact. If she did it once, maybe she’ll have a chance to do it again.”

“My sister has been kidnapped.” He says the words as if testing them out. “She made it to the internet café, but she must still be fearful if she couldn’t just ask for help. Why wouldn’t she be able to ask for help? Who is us?”

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