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we have to find Val and get Jon back. And can Matt even tour again after ending up in the ER last weekend? Did his parents find out about that? I mean, they must have, right? I planned on asking him today, before we ended up crossing the city.
    â€œAnything?” Caleb asks.
    â€œNot yet,” I say. A festival in Madrid? That’s not exactly England. . . .
    Caleb’s phone buzzes. “I might have something.” He holds out his phone. “Check this out.”
    I take it and see a page of pictures. It’s a Photobug account, and each photo is a thumbnail for an album. The page is titled M. C. Fowler’s Photos.
    â€œThis is . . . Melanie’s account? How did you get into this?”
    Caleb makes a face somewhere between a smile and a grimace. “Val.”
    â€œYou’re in touch with her?”
    â€œI have been since Saturday morning,” says Caleb. “You were already on the flight back . . . and she swore me to secrecy. She said her mom’s got the police looking for her.”
    â€œIs she at your house?”
    â€œNo, but she’s in town. She took the bus all the way back to LA. Just got in this morning. Borrowed money from her friend Neeta, I guess. She’s going to stay with a friend of one of her old band mates, in Manhattan Beach. She didn’t even come back to our place for her car. I swear I was going to tell you soon. . . .”
    â€œIt’s okay,” I say. “I get it.” I say this a little bit because I have to say it . . . but also I do understand. The fewer people know where Val is, the safer she is. And I know the jealous feeling I always have when it comes to Val is something I need to get over. I know she trusts me, too. But not as much as her brother.
    â€œI texted her while we were in Ari’s car,” Caleb says. “About Eli being alive. When I told her about London, she sent the link to this account, and the password info. She said Melanie doesn’t really use it anymore, and that a lot of the photos are from back when Val was a baby, and from before that. Back to when Eli was around. She thought there might be something here. She would have searched herself but she’s trying to stay off her phone as much as possible. She’s worried the police might be tracing it or something.”
    I scroll down, traveling back in time through Melanie’s life. There’s not much from these last ten years, but before that, the photos increase, including lots of shots of Val as a kid.
    â€œCheck this out,” I say, tapping one album and enlarging a photo. It’s Val at age four, naked except for a cowboy hat.
    â€œShe’d kill us if she knew we saw that,” said Caleb.
    â€œYup,” I say, clicking on it and saving it to my phone.
    â€œDon’t,” says Caleb.
    â€œJust this one,” I say. “Sometime when this is all over, we’ll show her and it will be hilarious.”
    I keep scrolling, past albums labeled Christmas 1999, Rehoboth Beach . . . And here’s one . . .
    â€œWhat’s Fowler Photography ?” I ask, clicking on it. The folder is dated 1999.
    At the top are a few photos of the beach, of fog over the sand. The photos are arranged chronologically. I scroll down through a series of shots of the same street sign in different exposures.
    Below that are black-and-white photos of Allegiance to North, very professional-looking. These are just like the photos that Melanie sent back at Christmas. There are live shots, the band members caught jumping around onstage, dripping sweat. And then a series of backstage candids. Their arms around guys and girls I don’t know. Some are dressed like they’re part of the industry, some look like fans. I check the dates on the photos: June 1998 . One of the shows on the last tour . . .
    â€œMelanie was good,” says Caleb, looking over my shoulder.
    I point to one near the end of the black-and-white set, showing