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Melanie between Eli and Kellen, an arm around each. “That’s awkward.”
    â€œYuck,” says Caleb.
    The next photos are Polaroids, scanned in. They are similar to the shots Melanie sent us. Washed-out images of her and Eli, of a rickety boardwalk and Eli with a soft-serve ice cream . . . maybe Coney Island?
    Then I see a picture that stops my breath. “Here.” It’s Eli, standing outside a row of three-story brownstone apartments. He’s wearing gold-framed sunglasses, a denim jacket, and torn black jeans. His arms are crossed over his chest, but he’s holding up one hand, dangling a set of keys.
    It’s the same building we saw in the little painting in Eli’s guitar case, and in the photo that we saw on the wall at Melanie Fowler’s house. . . .This one is dated July 1998.
    This is the place.
    â€œThere,” says Caleb, pointing to the photo beside it. It’s Eli in front of the same brownstone, but this time, in the corner of the frame we can see a street sign on the building wall. Only half visible, and blurry, but I can make out the letters “-ITH STREET.” When I zoom in on the building behind Eli, I can read the number on the door: 55.
    â€œOn the ‘Encore’ tape, Eli called it the summer Soho sessions, ” I say. I hand Caleb his phone back and then open the map on my phone. Zoom out until I can scroll across the country, across the Atlantic. All the way to London. Soho neighborhood. I zoom in and slowly slide the map, scanning the street names.
    â€œThere,” I say, holding up the phone. “Frith Street.”
    â€œWow,” says Caleb. He types a search for it into hisphone, then just stares at the little map. “I can’t believe that’s the spot. Like, where he is . . . wait.” He zooms in. There’s a little house-shaped icon floating over the address. He clicks on it. “Uh-oh.”
    The link takes him to a real estate page.
    HOT NEW LISTING
    55 Frith Street #3
    AVAILABLE FOR RENT 3/1.
    My heart starts to race. “That could just be a coincidence,” I say.
    â€œJerrod told him to hide again,” says Caleb. “He’s going to run.”
    â€œMarch first . . . that’s six days from now,” I say. “But that might not be his apartment. He could be in another one. And just because he lived there a long time ago, doesn’t mean he’s still there . . .”
    â€œYeah, but these pictures with Melanie,” says Caleb, “that little painting in the guitar case . . . This place was obviously important to him, sentimental. Jerrod said he’s been using a fake name. Maybe once he got it all set up, it was safest to stay put?”
    â€œBut then he came to New York, and now Jerrod’s telling him to disappear . . .” My brain is so overloaded that I start counting on my fingers. “He’s been back from New York for two . . . maybe three days, depending on what time his flight was. It will take him at least a few days to move, won’t it?”
    â€œWe can’t get this close and then just lose him!” says Caleb.
    Sitting there, I feel wild thoughts spinning in my head. Things a sensible person wouldn’t say. But given everything we’ve been through, and now this picture, and even that email from Andre, I just say them anyway:
    â€œWhat if we don’t let him get away?”
    â€œHow are we going to stop him?”
    â€œLet’s go,” I hear myself say, almost like someone has taken control of my body. Except I also feel like, no , this is me, really me, Summer and Catherine, all of us, my terrified, hopeful, brave core. “We have five days before the first of March. Five days to get to London before Eli moves. Eli will never expect us to show up right away. Neither will Jerrod.”
    â€œBecause that would be crazy,” says Caleb.
    I can’t help smiling, while also shivering inside. “Yes, it would