Chapter 12: The Last Message

"Which room is his?" I said.

His mother looked at me for a long moment.

"The last door on the left," she said. "He keeps it shut. He'd be angry if he knew I told you."

"I won't touch anything."

"Maisy." She caught my wrist, gently. "Don't hurt my son."

"I don't want to," I said, and that was the truest thing I'd said all week.

I went up the stairs alone.

The upstairs hall was long and dim, with photographs in dark frames.

There was a boy at five, a boy at ten, and two boys in matching sailor shirts laughing at the camera.

The last door on the left was open an inch.

I pushed it with one finger.

It was a boy's room, left exactly as he had left it.

A guitar leaned against a wall of band posters, and a rowing trophy sat on the shelf.

The bed was made with tight corners, and a gray sweatshirt hung over the chair.

On the desk, under a lamp, a phone lay on a charging pad.

The screen was lit.

I walked toward it.

The phone was an old model with a cracked corner.

It was open to a chat, and the name at the top was one I knew better than my own.

Nightcrawler.

My mouth went dry.

This was the account, and this was the phone it lived on.

Whoever had written to me for three months had written from this desk, under this lamp.

I scrolled up with one finger.

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