This Story Might Save Your Life(29)
“You went there.”
“And it did not go over well.”
Luna blows out through puffed lips.
I run a hand down my face. “I just wanted to be honest.”
Luna nods at the table.
“Say something. Please.”
She stands and tucks her computer under her arm. Without looking back, she says on her way out, “Call me if you have any news.”
* * *
I LIE FACE down on my bed for an hour after Luna leaves. I should’ve kept my stupid mouth shut. I told myself I didn’t want any secrets between us, but what I really wanted was for her to tell me I haven’t ruined everything. That everything is going to be okay.
And of course she can’t do that.
I must have drifted off, because the next time I open my eyes, there’s drool on the sheet. The light outside is searingly bright, my hair is damp with sweat, and all I want is to drink a gallon of water and fall back asleep. But the second I check my phone I realize this is not an option. Joy’s disappearance is international news, and messages are flooding in from every source imaginable. Including—my breath catches—a flurry of messages from Joy’s mother.
11:30 a.m. We just heard. What’s happening?? Is it true???
11:31 a.m. We’re only a day past Azores. We’re hoping we’re still close enough to charter a boat.
12:51 p.m. We’re stuck! There’s no way off! We’re not docking again for SEVEN DAYS.
12:51 p.m. This is a nightmare!
12:52 p.m. Benny, please call me as soon as you can!
Her number goes straight to voicemail, so I text her with Keller’s direct line, then call my sister.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Sarah asks.
Over the next twenty minutes I pace the house, Richie and Potsie at my heels as I tell Sarah everything, including the ugly parts that make me look like an ass. She hums her sympathy multiple times, and when I’m done she’s uncharacteristically quiet.
“What?” I drop to the couch.
“You shouldn’t be alone.”
“I’m okay. I promise. Just—just tell me what to do. What should I do? Talk to me like you’re my therapist. What would you tell me if I was your client?”
“Benny—”
“I’m not Benny. I’m Joe Schmoe and my best friend and her husband are missing. Go.”
“Have you slept at all?” Sarah’s tone is soft. “Maybe you should take a nap.”
“I did. I’m fine.”
“You should take a better nap. You don’t sound fine.”
I let out an exasperated huff. “Of course I’m not fine.”
“There’s a seven thirty out of Hartford. I can be there before midnight.”
“Stop.” I imagine her in the wood-paneled office of her hundred-year-old yellow bungalow, searching up flights with a determined frown. “Please just tell me what to do.”
I hear her inhale. Exhale. “Fine. You’re Joe Schmoe?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. If you were my client, I would remind you to breathe. I would remind you that sleep and water are important, and that you can’t help Joy or Xander until you first take care of yourself. And then I would remind you that your sister loves you very much, and will jump on a plane the moment you say go.”
By the time we hang up, I’ve gotten seven more texts, a few from people I haven’t spoken to in years. I scroll through them, and then keep scrolling, all the way down to my messages with Joy from that night.
7:37 p.m. I’m so, so sorry
7:37 p.m. I don’t know what came over me 7:38 p.m. Please forget I said anything 7:59 p.m. Joy?
8:30 p.m. Are we still recording tomorrow?
I’m humiliated all over again, but now the humiliation is colored by what I know. Did Joy even see these texts? I swallow back a swell of nausea, and nudge my finger along the screen to scan our other recent exchanges. Seeing the message Joy sent three days ago, my head starts to buzz.
Might need you to piece together some tracks for XYZ, Joy wrote.
A random text, certainly, but in the history of Joy texts, not her strangest. I assumed “piece together some tracks” meant a sizzle reel of some sort, and “XYZ” meant “for various reasons.” Likely this was something Xander had asked for. More info, please, I wrote back. An hour later, Joy responded with a single emoji:
Mmkay … and…?
Joy never replied, and I forgot about it entirely.
Now I open Joy’s computer and pull up the folder I found last night: XYZ.
I double-check the time stamps. Joy’s texts were sent two minutes after she created the folder. The buzz spreads to my limbs as I open my own computer and do a targeted search. There it is, copied to a TSMSYL cloud folder that only Joy and I share.
XYZ. A title small and innocuous enough to go unnoticed.
Until now. Four files—three raw tracks from our last three published episodes and one password-protected PDF, also called XYZ.
It seems I was right before. There might very well be something to glean from our recent episodes.
I don’t know how all of this is supposed to work, or what it means, but one thing is certain: Joy meant for me to find this.
I think Joy may have left me a clue.