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picked up traces of other emotions in Tiger’s expression: embarrassment, maybe even some resentment. Why?
    Wally broke the silence.
    â€œTiger . . . ”
    The sound of his name snapped Tiger into action. Tiger glanced over his shoulder with a look of concern, as if to make sure that Wally’s voice hadn’t been heard by anyone else. When he finally turned back to the camera, his eyes met Wally’s for only a moment before his hand shot forward, reaching for a mouse or touchpad.
    The video image on Wally’s screen suddenly went black.
    â€œNo!” Wally tried desperately to reestablish the video feed, but now all signs of her “Anonymous” contact were gone, as if they had never been there at all.
    Shit .
    Wally jumped onto her feet and paced around the loft, trying to settle herself down. She was mad and frustrated, and she couldn’t help directing some of those feelings at Tiger himself. He’d cut off the feed on purpose, obviously, even though he had made the effort to search her out in the first place.
    Four months of searching and this was what she got for it? Bullshit.
    She continued pacing—and breathing—and after a few minutes Wally’s thinking became calm enough to consider two positive things: First of all, Tiger was alive. Second, he had made an effort to reach out to her, even if it had been indirect and secretive.
    And then there was the bad news: when Wally had spoken his name out loud, Tiger had immediately gone on the alert, checking over his shoulder for . . . what? Or whom? She hadn’t seen actual fear on his face—for Tiger to show any kind of vulnerability was unimaginable to her—but he probably had reason to watch his own back. From everything Wally knew about her brother, he had gone from one doomed, perilous situation to another all his life.
    What kind of danger was Tiger in now?

5 .
    WORN-OUT AND DRAINED DOWN TO HER BONES,
Wally finally drifted off to sleep . . . until her cell phone rang, breaking the late-night silence of her loft. The caller ID read “Harmony House,” the resource center for homeless youths in midtown Manhattan. During her time on the street, Wally had been a frequent visitor at the facility and had established a few relationships there.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œWally? It’s Candace Chen, over at Harmony House. I’m sorry to bother you so late.  . . . ”
    Wally checked her phone—it read 2 : 40 A.M .
    â€œThat’s okay, Candace. What’s going on?”
    â€œWe had someone show up at our night desk. He’s been beaten up pretty badly, and I think he might have been using tonight. He’s very agitated. We tried to get him to agree to go to an ER or to call the police, but he was fiercely against it and we have to respect that—you know our policy. If these kids can’t trust us, we might as well shut our doors.”
    â€œI understand. But why are you calling?” Wally rubbed her eyes, confused.
    â€œSo I did a little snooping. He had an address written on a piece of notepaper in his jacket pocket. It was for the Ursula Society. That’s where you work, right?”
    Wally sat up in bed now, the fog of sleep clearing just enough for her to realize where this was going.
    â€œIs his name Kyle, by any chance?”
    â€œYep,” Candace said. “His ID says Kyle Townsend, seventeen. Address on the Upper East Side. I would have waited and called you in the morning, but he’s insisting on leaving now, and he’s obviously in some kind of trouble. I thought that if you knew him you might be able to help figure out a plan that would keep him safe.”
    The smart thing for Wally to do was nothing. In the morning she could call Lewis and figure out if the Society could help Kyle, who seemed to be spiraling out of control. But that would be a cop-out.
    â€œKeep him there if you can, Candace,” Wally