It's been almost a year since the funeral. There wasn't a body. Kettle Lake never gave her back, and after a while everyone stopped waiting.

Your aunt is moving. She asked you to help clear out the basement. Inside a Rubbermaid tote labeled TEGAN — DO NOT THROW OUT, under three sweaters and a stack of Tiger Beat magazines, you found a seafoam-green Dell laptop with stickers peeling off the lid. The M key is sticky.

It still boots.

Her desktop is exactly as she left it. Pink wallpaper. AIM still logged in. A folder on the desktop labeled pinecrest_summer.zip, encrypted. A Python window open with broken scripts she was working on the night she disappeared.

You shouldn't be reading this. Nobody asked you to.

You're going to anyway.