REZA DROPPED Malachi and Auntie Isabel off at her apartment. Cruz slept in his room, his babysitter Mrs. Voltolini snoozing on the couch, a football game on the TV. She snored loudly when they opened the door, then quickly gathered her things and left.

Auntie Isabel disappeared into her bedroom. Muffled sobs filtered out through the crack in the door. Malachi headed into the bathroom and changed into pajamas—flannel pants, some old t-shirt, and a pair of fuzzy socks—although sleep was the last thing from his mind. He just wanted to get comfortable. He was in this for the long haul.

Why should he be comfortable when Mila was missing?

The living room was stuffy, too stuffy. Malachi pulled at his t-shirt, hot and uncomfortable—like he couldn't breathe. He cracked the window and peered out at the brick apartment building across the street. The distant roar of traffic thrummed to life. Voices filtered in from the streets below. A far-off siren hummed. The noises made him twitchy, but it was better than the stuffiness.

He sat on the couch and opened his laptop, plugging his camera into it. As the recording loaded, his foot bounced up and down. God, it was noisy outside. Finally, the footage loaded. He opened it and watched the raw video over-and-over again until his eyes strained. Nothing new.

Malachi created a new folder on his laptop: MILA'S DISAPPEARANCE. He hoped it didn't sound suspicious. He saved the raw footage to a file titled CRIME SCENE.

The siren grew louder. Malachi shivered as the winter air swelled inside the apartment. He buried his head in his arms, got up, and slammed the window shut. The water turned on in Auntie Isabel's bathroom. Malachi rested his camera on the kitchen counter and sat on one of the stools. He clicked "record."

With the camera rolling and focused on him, he felt twice as shy as normal. Whatever he'd planned to say died on his tongue. Now that he'd closed the window, it was too hot in here, too stuffy again—he couldn't breathe. His face burned. He shifted on the stool and ran his hands through his hair, unsure what to do with his body, which felt too lanky, too bony.

He wasn't used to this side of the camera. He'd occasionally say something while he was filming or crack a joke, but he'd never once shown his face in a video. He was always the one filming Mila; not the other way around. He was like Freddie from iCarly, except more mysterious, which made it sexy.

He took a deep breath and looked at the wall above the camera. He tried picturing Mila, like he was talking to her. After all, this video was intended for one person and one person only: Mila.

But even when it was just the two of them, half the time he didn't know what to say. She was loud enough for both of them. Staying quiet was his default setting.

His lips parted. He tried speaking, but all he managed was a hopeless squeak. Leaving the camera running, he leapt from his seat and grabbed a skinny glass out of the cabinet, filling it with room temperature water from the Brita filter. He took a sip, steeling his nerves, and made his way back to his camera set-up.

His body ached for caffeine. The craving started in his throat and spread outward through his veins, making the blood pound in his head. He wanted to forget the video all together and hunt down a cup of iced coffee. But he didn't want to go out alone after dark. They didn't know what had happened to Mila. For all he knew, a serial killer was on the loose. He didn't want to leave the safety of the Santos' apartment. Plus, he knew if he got up, he'd never sit back down to finish this video.

And he needed to finish this video.

Malachi took a deep breath. "This video is going to be a little different." He shook his head. Cut that out. He wasn't a YouTuber making an apology video for tasteless "jokes." His best friend was missing. He tried again. "I have bad news." But it sounded cheap and vague. "I bet you're wondering why I'm on this side of the camera." No, too fun and perky. "This is difficult to film." Nope. Still sounded like an apology video.

He buried his face in his hands. This was difficult to film. He had no idea what to say. All he knew was Mila was missing and he didn't know what to do and he had to do something and he had never felt so helpless and scared and alone in all his life, not even when...

Malachi lifted his head up. "Mila is missing."

Good, good—straight to the point. But he didn't know where to go from there. He stared into the camera and debated calling Adrian. He knew more about being on this end of the camera than he did. He could help him. But this video needed to be Malachi's. Adrian had barely known Mila a year. Malachi had been best friends with her since middle school. She was family.

"My, um..." he stammered and pulled at his collar. It was getting hot in here, too hot. A bead of sweat dripped down his forehead. He needed to open the window. But then it would get too cold and too noisy again. Christ, he didn't know what to do. "Best friend. The girl who, uh, runs this channel with me... usually in the videos."

He took a shaky, halting breath. This was much harder than he'd thought. And not just because he didn't know what to say. He rubbed his forehead, wiping the sweat from his brow. You can do this, Malachi.

"She went... she went missing this morning. Or last morning. Whatever. None of us can get a hold of her... realized it this evening. Or last evening. I don't know." His lip trembled. "... sent a search party. Went to the woods. We found..."

Blood. So much blood. More blood than Malachi'd ever seen in his life. And Mila's clothes, torn to shreds. And something was wrong, something was wrong, everything was wrong. Malachi choked on the memory and swallowed back a tidal wave of tears. He shut his eyes and rubbed them with his shaking hands. When he could finally speak again, his voice was blubbery and thick with tears. He had to force each word off his tongue.

"... a crime scene. Or something. So much blood. So much blood. And Mila's clothes—all torn to shreds and... bloodstained."

The dam broke. Tears burst from his eyes. Low, terrible sobs vomited out of his mouth. He choked on his tears and forced down the glass of water to calm himself down. By the time he finished it, the tears had stopped. His eyes were puffy and red. His head throbbed.

"So we think, uh... we think something happened. Bad." Obviously. His voice was hoarse. He was out of his body. He was out of his mind. There was no way this was real. There was no way he was filming this video. "And... I guess I'm making this video to, uh, get the word out. If you see anything. Or know anything. Or whatever. Um, email me. It's in the description."

He paused and rubbed his hand over his face. Get it together, Malachi. Mila's missing.

"She's, um, nineteen. Camila Ana Santos. Mila. Five-foot-two. Maybe one-fifteen or one-twenty pounds. I don't know, I never asked." He almost felt ashamed for never asking. Maybe then he'd have a better description. "Hispanic. And she's got the, uh, dark curly hair. Brown eyes. Brown skin. Small scar on her forehead. Pierced nose. Pierced ears." He absentmindedly rubbed his own ears as he talked. "And she has a tattoo on her wrist. Of a little alien head." He had no idea what clothes she'd been wearing this morning. "Not sure what clothes she was last seen in. Last known location, uh, her mom's apartment in Queens. Maybe she got as far as South Mountain in Jersey. She said she was going there. She's from—we live in New York. Her mom lives in Queens. Obviously. I just said that. But she—uh, we—go to NYU. So she was staying at... you know, the dorms. In Manhattan. Her dorm's in the Village... Greenwich Village."

He looked at his hands. What else could he say? The video felt short and impersonal. He'd already given a description and location—all the facts he had. He went to refill his water.

Why am I doing this? Their channel had twenty subscribers. Most of them were Mila's friends and family. He wasn't doing this to spread awareness. Everyone who watched their videos would already know. Why was he doing this? Not only making this video, but filming everything? He racked his brain.

1. To hold the police accountable. If he posted everything he knew, they would know he was keeping tabs on them. So that if he, in turn, went missing, people would know who to blame. So if the cops messed up (and they would), Mila's case wouldn't be forgotten. She wouldn't be forgotten.

2. It was what Mila would have wanted. She used to say when she was murdered, she wanted to be featured in an episode of Buzzfeed Unsolved. True crime or supernatural—she wasn't picky. Malachi was no Ryan Bergara or Shane Madej, but this was the next best thing.

3. Because Malachi felt hopeless and useless and scared and alone and helpless. This was what he was good at, this was his thing. It got his mind off the grim realities and gave him something to do, to focus on, to throw all his energy into. It made him feel busy. Like he could do something to help Mila.

He took another drink of water, got up, and opened the window again. He was sweating through his shirt; the apartment felt too small. The cold air washed over his face, turning his sweat to ice. Outside, a horn blared.

"Mila... Mila was my best friend," Malachi said once he sat back down. He scrunched up his face; he'd already said that. "I knew her better than anybody. And... her going missing—I mean, no one expects that. But it wasn't... out of the blue, I guess. Or whatever. I mean..." He was an idiot. What was he even saying? That he'd been expecting her to disappear? That made it sound like he killed her. "I don't wanna say I was, uh, expecting her to disappear or anything. That's not... that's not true. Or I would have done something. But I mean, look at what she used to talk about. She used to say when I get murdered, like it was a when, not an if. Like as a joke."

He froze as the red "record" button flashed at him. Here he was talking about murder. Like Mila had been murdered. Like she was dead. But that wasn't right at all. She couldn't be. He ran his hands through his hair. Christ, this sounded awful.

"I'm not trying to... I don't know. I just—when you spend your whole life talking about, uh, true crime and you go missing—I mean, it's not a surprise is all I'm saying. It was just such a big part of how I knew her. Know her. I mean—this is coming out all wrong." He rubbed his face and groaned into his hands. "I'm just saying this didn't come from nowhere. Not that I think..."

He paused and looked back at his camera. Did he think? He did. And he didn't want to lie to their twenty followers. He owed them that much. He chugged his second glass of water, but his mouth was still dry from all the talking and the tears. How did Mila do this all the time, just talking into the camera with no interruptions? He'd die of dehydration. He should get another glass... but he knew if he walked away he'd never get this off his chest.

"The crime scene... I mean, it didn't look like just a crime scene. It looked like a murder scene. And obviously I'm not a cop"—he gave a dark chuckle of thanks—"so I don't know anything about this, but I've seen enough crime scene photos. I know what they look like. And there was so much blood. There's no way..." He shook his head. "I don't know. I might be wrong. But here's the thing"—he took a breath. How could he explain it? It barely even made sense in his own head. It was just a gut feeling. The only thing he had to back it up were her missing shoes, and that wouldn't hold up in a court of law. "I know Mila better than anyone. And I don't think she was murdered."

He stared at the camera again, shivering as his sweat froze against his skin. He'd exhausted everything he'd had to say. But that was a cheap, empty ending. Why didn't he think she'd been murdered? He didn't know. Just a gut feeling. That somewhere out there, she was alive. Maybe kidnapped. Maybe hurt. Maybe in trouble. But alive.

Maybe it was optimism. Maybe he was delusional and maybe Mila had been murdered. But it couldn't be and he couldn't be and she couldn't have been. The more he thought about it, the less sense it made. Mila wasn't a victim; she was a survivor. She had to be alive somewhere out there. And her shoes... her shoes. It didn't make sense.

Malachi stared at the blinking red dot on his camera. He had to have more to say. Mila was missing. This was the most important video he'd ever filmed. So he took a deep breath and tried again.

"Mila... Mila was a fighter. She wouldn't die so easily," he explained. "I don't think she—I don't think someone could have murdered her. It just doesn't make any sense. And she wouldn't die like this, so suddenly, with no explanation or time to say, you know, goodbye. Just... up and gone. I can't... I can't wrap my head around that. Her just being gone. And just... leaving me here, alone. She has to... she has to be alive. Somewhere out there. And you know she knew a lot about true crime. And she would have—I mean, there are things she would have done. Like, she would have left her shoes... one at the crime scene, one in the attacker's car. It's just—it's just something she would have done. And I looked all over the crime scene and I couldn't find a shoe anywhere and all her other clothes were there." Admitting it out loud, he knew he sounded delusional. But it didn't make any sense. "I don't know. I just have—this gut feeling she's alive. Maybe not okay, but alive. Still fighting. Out there somewhere. And I just want to put that out into the universe before the cops get involved... because I think, uh, treating this as a murder case would be a mistake. Mila's alive somewhere. And we need to find her."

He shut his camera off and buried his face in his hands.

***

MALACHI STAYED UP ALL NIGHT working on the video. Once he finished, he uploaded it to their channel. Mila is Missing. No description. He hoped it didn't sound like clickbait. Then he replayed the footage of the crime scene over and over until his eyes were numb. Mila's shredded, bloody clothes burned in his retinas.

When the sun came up, Auntie Isabel came out and got to work in the kitchen. She said nothing to Malachi. Soon, he smelled garlic and onions frying in the pan and something sweet baking in the oven. His stomach rumbled. He joined her and sat at the counter, watching as she juggled enough pots and pans for an entire army of chefs to wrangle. Chicken, potatoes, and vegetables fried on the stove.

"I can help," Malachi offered.

"No, no. You rest, sweets." Auntie Isabel shook her head. Dark circles ringed her eyes, and beneath her apron she was still wearing the clothes she wore yesterday. Her hair was a mess and pulled back in a low, loose ponytail. Flour dusted across her nose. Something dark stained her apron. "I was up all night worrying myself sick."

"Me too."

She locked eyes with him, then turned back to her pots. Malachi could really smell the food now. His stomach rumbled again, reminding him he'd gone all night without any food. He pushed back from the table and grabbed his laptop to distract himself with something online.

He plopped down on the couch and pulled up YouTube. He'd left it open on the video he'd posted late that night. His heart skipped a beat. The video had a hundred views. He refreshed the page to check if it was a glitch, but it wasn't. The video had exactly a hundred views.

Malachi could barely believe it. He'd posted this video not even two hours ago and it already had four times as many views as they had subscribers.

Absently rubbing the piece of tape over his webcam, he watched as the viewer count ticked upward. One-oh-one. One-oh-two. Then it froze. Malachi shivered and slammed his computer shut. It unnerved him that this was the video it took to get their views skyrocketing. It felt wrong. Like he was exploiting her disappearance. But maybe this was a good thing. Maybe it'd raise awareness. Maybe it'd bring Mila home.

"Malachi!" Auntie Isabel yelled from the kitchen. "Breakfast!"

Malachi jumped from his seat and froze. He was starving, but he didn't have an appetite. He couldn't eat. He just needed to stick an IV in and pump nutrients through his body to dull the ache in his stomach. He shook his head and trudged to the kitchen. He grabbed a plate, but Auntie Isabel took it out of his hands.

"No, no," she said. "I have too much nervous energy. Sit down. I'll serve you. Do you want a little bit of everything?"

Malachi had too much nervous energy himself. "Auntie—"

"Malachi!" she snapped, and he knew this wasn't a battle he could win. So he nodded, told her yes, and poured himself a glass of orange juice. He sat down at his usual seat at the counter and watched as Auntie Isabel filled his plate with heaping portions of steaming hot food and brought it to him.

"Just popped some muffins in," she said to the oven. "Should be out in half-an-hour."

Malachi stared at his plate, unsure if he wanted to eat it. It looked and smelled delicious, and his stomach was rumbling. He was shaky from hunger, and his head throbbed. But it felt wrong to enjoy Mila's mom's cooking when she was missing, maybe in danger. Despite his reservations, the smell was intoxicating and his stomach empty. He shovelled a good portion of chicken and potatoes down his throat. He almost moaned.

"Are you going to eat?" he asked, his mouth full.

"Me?" Auntie Isabel shook her head and tapped her foot, staring at the oven as if willing it to cook faster. "No, no. I couldn't. I'm too nervous."

Malachi washed down his first couple of bites with some orange juice. "You need to eat." He could see her shaking.

"I'll just make myself sick."

Malachi inhaled his first plate and went back for seconds. His head still throbbed. He'd thought some food would help, but it must have been a caffeine headache. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd had a drop of coffee. Or maybe it was from the lack of sleep...

After he set his own plate down, he filled another plate and placed it in her hands. He said nothing and sat back down.

"Malachi..." Auntie Isabel's eyes welled with tears. She sat beside him, carefully cut a carrot in two, and placed a half inside her mouth. She took a long time to chew. She set her fork and knife down and placed her hand on top of Malachi's. "You know you'll always have a home here. Even if Mila's... I don't even wanna say it. I just want you to know you're always welcome here. You're family."

Malachi choked on his orange juice. He nodded. "Thanks." There was so much more he wanted to say. So much more he didn't know how to say. So much more he couldn't say, even if he knew how.

Auntie Isabel turned back toward the oven. She didn't seem keen on eating anything other than that tiny slice of carrot. "I'm going to look into hiring a PI. I need to hurry and find one before..." she trailed off, but she didn't need to finish the thought. Malachi knew what she needed to find one before—before it was too late, before the cops got involved and messed everything up.

Malachi forked a piece of chicken into his mouth. "What can I do?"

"I spent the night printing out flyers," she replied. "You can get some friends together and go hang them up and pass them out around town."

Malachi almost choked on the chicken. He washed it down with a gulp of orange juice. Get some friends together. He knew why she suggested it. Safety in numbers. Plus, it would make everything go a lot faster. It would be impossible to expect one man to hang up flyers in all of New York City. Or even all of Queens. But who could he call? He didn't have any real friends other than Mila.

Adrian, Becca, and Jaime were obvious choices, but he barely knew them. Maybe they could bring a couple of friends. But even then... it would take days.

He flipped through his meager phone contacts. Mila and Auntie Isabel. Becca and Adrian and Jaime. His shithole of a mom. His sweet little sister, who he couldn't bring into any of this. And... Reza Gutiérrez, who'd insisted on exchanging numbers last night as "a safety precaution, in case we get separated."

Malachi nodded, too embarrassed to admit his lack of friends to "get together." Auntie Isabel finished the rest of the carrot slice she'd cut in two. She gave him a sad smile and his shoulder a squeeze and got up to check on the muffins, her plate abandoned. He didn't like seeing her like this, all strung-out and shaky, too nervous to eat or take care of herself.

He gulped down the rest of his orange juice and took his plate to the sink.

***

[ video description ]

[ TikTok posted by adrianonline ]

[ Sad music plays in the background. Adrian Moreau makes sad and serious faces at the camera. "my girlfriend went missing" captions the video, followed by "she's been in a couple of my videos." Screenshots of the two together and Mila by herself flash across the screen. The video pauses on a recent photo of Mila smiling at the camera, over which is written her vitals and information about her disappearance. Then it cuts to Adrian. "If you see something, say something." The video ends. ]

20.5k comments

jiffy.boomer: seems hella sus 1s ago

fangkin02: Did this mans rlly just admit to killing his gf on TikTok? 2m ago

x.charvoyant.x: nooo000o not adrian being cancelled bc he might have murdered his gf :////// 54m ago
View replies (11)

tonyhawkslostson: you guys, everyone grieves differently. you dont know how u would react in this situation. i just think we shouldnt judge him or jump to conclusions. #teamadrian 12h ago
View replies (359)

tess_is_a_loser: Not saying Adrian's a murderer, but lowkey I think he did it. 4h ago

hxrrystylesleftnipple: y'all really worshipping this yt boy? couldn't be me. i knew he was sus from the beginning. #JusticeForMila #AdrianMoreauIsOverParty 3h ago
View replies (43)

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***

MALACHI PLANNED TO CON as many people as he could into helping pass out flyers. He told them all to meet him at the Santos' apartment in an hour, giving him enough time to grab a cup of coffee before they headed out. Not even bothering to brush his hair, he pulled on his boots and coat and said goodbye to Auntie Isabel. He darted out the door. As he walked, his phone buzzed insistently in his pocket. He ignored it.

He ended up at a coffee shop down the street and got in line. As he waited, he pulled his phone out. Some texts from the people he'd invited. One from his little sister Talia. And two missed calls from his shithole mom along with a slew of text messages. He heaved a Malasigh and opened the one from Talia.

TALIA

[ u need to call mom rn she's freaking out malachi seriously ]

He heaved an even bigger Malasigh and opened the ones from his mom.

NESSA

[ Malachi! ]

[ Call me. NOW ]

[ I'm worried sick!!!!!!!!!!!!! ]

[ Where r u???? Malachi??? ]

[ MALACHI EDEN ABRAMTZIK CALL ME RIGHT THE FUCK NOW ]

Yes, his mom's name in his phone was just her first name. She wasn't special. He heaved one last Malasigh for good measure. As if calling him by his full name and throwing in an f-bomb would make him call her any faster.

MALACHI

[ out for coffee call u when i get back ]

He almost added home to spite her—he was going back to the Santos'—but decided to be the bigger person.

NESSA

[ No!!!!!! ]

[ U need to call me NOW ]

Malachi pocketed his phone and examined the menu while he waited for his turn. If he had to speak to her, it would be on his terms. And before he could deal with all her bullshit, he needed caffeine.