The email address had a link at the bottom, directing to a secure chat application.

“He did this before, didn’t he?” I asked, looking at the concrete wall of the garage.

“We need to answer them,” Marisol said. “Tell them we want to meet.”

I typed a quick reply, my thumbs slick with sweat.

*Who are you?* I wrote. *How do you know Derek?*

A minute passed in the hot car.

The phone buzzed again.

*I am someone he ruined,* the reply came. *Meet me at the diner on 8th Street. One hour. Come alone.*

Marisol looked at the screen over my shoulder.

“You are not going alone,” Marisol said.

“If I don’t go, they might not tell us anything,” I said.

“I will sit at the counter,” Marisol said. “You sit at a booth. We don’t let you out of my sight.”

We drove toward Southwest 8th Street, the traffic moving slowly under the midday sun.

The palm trees along the road looked dusty and dry.

My mind was racing, trying to put the pieces together.