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This is Karla Ellis, Colt’s business manager. He has received some terrible news this morning, and he will be withdrawing from all social media. Please respect the family’s privacy at this time. Thank you.

I sent the photograph because it wasn’t taken at 5:03 a.m. yesterday. It was pitch black in California at that time. I estimate it was taken closer to 7 a.m., on a different day, obviously.

I believe Colt received the news and scrambled to post a photograph “proving” he was at home when he was not. Does that mean he was at a lover’s house that night? Or that he wasn’t in California at all?

I’m still digging. I just wanted to send you this as an indication of what I can do.

Your first question will be why I’m doing this at all. Money. I’ll make no bones about that. Fighting for a noble cause is laudable, but it doesn’t pay my bills. However, I am not asking you for money.

As I said, I’ve worked for lawyers. In civil suits, they aren’t paid unless they win their case.

I believe this situation is similar. There is money to be had here for whoever tells your story.

I will admit, I fancy myself something of a writer.

My payment then is that I have your permission to tell this story once it is finished.

I will be blunt. If you are taken into custody and found guilty, your story has minimal value. If you avoid arrest and are ultimately vindicated, though? That is – pardon my language – one hell of a tale. I want to be the one to tell it.

So here is my offer. Talk to me. Allow me to continue working your case. At some point, I will ask for permission in the form of a binding contract. That contract, though, will stipulate that it is null and void in the event that you are convicted of this crime.

I could point out that I’m taking a chance believing in you. Sadly, I’ve never been much of a salesman. Instead, I’ll point out that, considering the stakes for me, I’m fully motivated to prove your innocence.

Beneath that, he – from his use of “salesman,” I presume he’s male – gives me instructions on how I can talk to him via a messaging app.

He’s set up a new account for himself and provided his username.

He’s asked only that whatever username I choose, it starts with an L , so he’ll know it’s me when I ping him.

He has a good story here. It’s bogus, of course, but TPI – or his boss, Thompson – has at least come up with a more plausible explanation than “I’m offering to help you because it’s the right thing to do.”

Okay, Mr. Thompson. Let’s see what you’ve got.

There’s a sandwich shop a few blocks over, and I noticed it offered free Wi-Fi. I’ll grab lunch there and contact TPI.

As I walk, I think about what TPI found, and I wish, for the hundredth time, that I’d read Colt’s text thread before it disappeared.

I’m so lost in my thoughts that I pass the sandwich shop and have to clear my head and backtrack.

I arrive to find a tiny place ringed with counter seating, packed too tightly for privacy. There’s also a lineup out the door.

I consider finding another spot to eat, but well, I only had coffee this morning, and I’m starving. I’ll download the messaging app while I’m waiting, and if a seat clears, the sheer crush of people might mean no one will pay any attention to me.

I download the app and create a fake account using a new email address. I choose LlamaGirl as my username. Hey, he said to start it with an L . His own username is PCTracy. Is his name Tracy? Surname? PC makes me think Police Constable . That’s British, though.

As I step into the shop, I pause to figure out what I want to eat. Italy might love its meats and cheeses, but sandwiches aren’t its thing, and the second I see pastrami and rye on the menu, my mouth waters.

Back to the app. It pings him with an automated “LlamaGirl says hi!” complete with my emoji – a blond cheerleader waving and grinning.

Totally looks like me. A moment later, an emoji appears waving back…

and it’s a blond guy who looks like a high-school jock, the male equivalent of my choice.

I have to laugh at that. Then I remember Thompson…

who almost certainly was a blond jock in high school. Huh.

LlamaGirl: Waiting in line for a sandwich. Chat in a minute?

PCTracy: Not going anywhere. So, llamas, huh?

LlamaGirl: My secret passion. They’re adorable.

PCTracy: They spit and bite, and they’re bad-tempered.

LlamaGirl: We have a lot in common.

PCTracy: LOL

LlamaGirl: So Tracy, huh? Please tell me PC isn’t Police Constable.

PCTracy: Nah. Plainclothes Tracy. Old comic.

LlamaGirl: Any relation to Dick Tracy?

PCTracy: It WAS Tracy… before he became a dick.

I give a sputtered snort that has the guy in front of me glancing over his shoulder.

I also have to laugh because I’d been thinking of him as Thompson’s dick, the archaic name for private investigators, which is where the Dick in Dick Tracy comes from.

It’s like us independently choosing highschool blond emojis – it feels like a connection when I am desperate for one.

I remember Thompson’s first email, very professional and formal, like PCTracy’s. Then came the more casual ones… exactly like the casual tone PCTracy has switched to here. More proof that I’m actually talking to the lawyer himself?

I step up and place my order. As the young woman starts to take it, a guy my age shoulders her aside with a murmured, “I’ve got this. Filipe needs help in the back.”

The new guy – the manager – asks for my order again. I give it, and he takes forever finding it on the touch screen.

“Cheddar cheese?” he asks.

I correct him. His gaze scans the screen, frowning as if he can’t find Swiss. Maybe because it’s the default for pastrami and rye?

“There it is,” he says. “Now, mustard. We have…”

He begins rhyming off options. I stop him with “Dijon is fine.”

Again, he takes forever to find it. Behind me, people start grumbling. The second counter person frowns at his supervisor. Typical management – jumps in when things get busy and actually slows the process.

“Pickles…” the manager says, gaze on his screen. “Is that spears or whole?”

“Either is fine.”

“Okay so… let’s see.” He reads back my order so slowly that I wonder whether I’ve developed an Italian accent and English seems like my second language. “Anything to drink with that?”

I’d love a Coke… but the people in my line may lynch me if I don’t wrap this up fast. I whip out a twenty instead.

The manager lifts the bill and squints at it. Then he looks at me with exaggerated sorrow.

“I’m afraid this is counterfeit, ma’am.”

“What? I got it from a bank machine. It can’t–” I bite off the protest. “Never mind. Take this one, and I’ll sort it with the bank.”

I extend a second twenty.

He shakes his head. “I can’t do that. Company policy. Let me take this into the office and scan it to be sure. Please wait here.”

I stare at his retreating back, feeling as if I’ve stumbled into a comedy skit. Are there hidden cameras? I can see the headline now. Fugitive Accidentally Caught During…

I stop. This manager is stalling me. Actively and clumsily stalling me with what seems like a bad comedy routine, so over-the-top that it can’t possibly be real.

It isn’t real.

I’ve been recognized.