“Okay so I’ve been doing the most normal 4 a.m. activity.” I turn the screen toward her. “Scrolling missing persons databases like a totally sane person having a totally normal Sunday morning.”
Alex leans forward. Her eyes scan the spreadsheet I built. Color-coded rows. Filters. My neurodivergent brain organizing horror into neat columns.
She points to a column labeledmissing. “How many?” She sounds scared.
“Eighty-seven.”
She looks up. “Eighty-seven?”
“Women reported missing in Philadelphia County since January first.” I can’t look at her. “That’s not even a full month, Alex.”
The number sits there. Eighty-seven.
Body count. That’s what it is. Eighty-seven women who walked out of their lives and vanished. Eighty-seven familiesstill waiting. Eighty-seven names in a database I built at 4 a.m. because I couldn’t sleep.
But none of them are her.
“That’s like—” Alex’s voice cracks. “—what, three Serial podcast seasons worth?”
“That’s not how?—”
“I’m coping with math. Let me have this.”
I look at her. Really look. She’s doing that thing where she makes jokes so she doesn’t scream.
“That’s just reported,” I continue. “Doesn’t count the ones no one files for. The ones no one notices are gone.”
“Dylan—”
“Three women every day, Alex. Every single day. At least!” My laugh is broken. “And we’re supposed to just—what? Accept that?”
“Stop.” Alex reaches across. Takes my hand. Forces me to look at her. “Breathe.”
Oh. I wasn’t.
We sit there. Her hand warm over mine. Pulling me back.
“Okay.” She pulls back. Sits up straighter. That thing she does when she’s terrified but refusing to show it. “Show me what you found.”
I pull up the spreadsheet. My organizing system. Red for still missing. Yellow for found alive. Gray for found deceased.
Forty-three are still red.
“You’re not looking for her,” Alex says quietly. “Are you?”
“I can’t.” The words taste bitter. “It’s too soon. She won’t be in here yet.”
Alex’s face does something complicated. “What do you mean too soon?”
“It’s Sunday morning. She died Friday night—technically Saturday morning, around 2 a.m.” I pull up the timeline I built.“Even if someone realizes she’s missing—which they might not for days—they won’t file a report immediately.”
“Why not?”
“Because the police tell people to wait. Give it 24 to 48 hours. She probably went home with someone. She probably just needed space. She probably forgot to charge her phone.” My hands are shaking. “That’s what they say. Every time. Wait. Don’t panic. She’ll turn up.”
“But she won’t.”
“No. She won’t.” I close that spreadsheet. Open another. “So I’m not looking for her. I’m looking for the others.”
