Rollins near your computer, okay?”
Becca Stevenson had eighty-two friends.
Eighty-two friends sounds like a healthy number. To maintain eighty-two relationships required a certain degree of social activity and mutual care. But on the Internet, where “friendship” meant nothing other than the click of a mouse, eighty-two “friends” was nothing. Eighty-two friends for a high school sophomore made Becca something of a loner.
Funny how it was the loners who went missing.
Eighty-two friends might not be much in the world of Facebook, but it was too many people for Morhart to track down on his own. He was about to narrow down the field.
He clicked first on the tab for photographs, hoping to find an array of photos matching full names to smiling faces, the high-tech equivalent of a “question these witnesses first” list. Instead, he found only two photo albums. One, labeled “Profile Pictures,” included one shot, a photo of Becca’s little dog. The other, labeled “Big Apple,” featured grainy phone-quality pictures of what looked like Manhattan, posted three and a half weeks earlier. Water. Buildings. Graffiti on brick. No people. No smiling faces. Based on what he’d gathered about the girl’s disposition, he assumed she was trying to be artsy.
He read the postings on Becca’s Wall, the page where her friends could leave messages for her.
The entire first page consisted of messages submitted since Becca’s disappearance had been made public.
Linwood High misses you. Come back soon and safe!
OMG, Becca. Hope you’re just off being wild.
We love you, Becca, and pray that you’re well.
Morhart suspected the trite sayings had been scribbled by classmates who hardly knew the missing girl. He scrolled down further, searching for posts written prior to Becca’s current claim to fame. The level of posting activity suddenly dropped. He read from the bottom up, taking in the earliest posts first.
Four weeks ago, she posted a status update: “I know I shouldn’t, but I do love me some Glee.”
A girl named Sophie Ferrin posted a response: “And you say I’m the dork.”
Sophie Ferrin. Morhart knew the name. Best gal pal. Last to see her around.
Sophie’s post was followed by a second response. “That show is totally gay.” Authored by Rodney Carter. Morhart recognized that name, too. Boyfriend to Sophie. Accompanied the girls to the mall that same night.
He scrolled further up the page, skipping over the postings related to the nonsense games people played on Facebook. Squirreling up loot in one virtual world. A promotion to captain in another. The fertilization of nonexistent farms.
He was only thirty-four years old but felt like a cantankerous old geezer, shaking his head with scorn at the rotting brains of today’s teenagers.
A few days after the Glee posting, Becca had posted another update: “Heading to the city tonight. Woot!” The date matched the upload date for the city images he’d seen in her photo album.
“Have fun, girl, but not too much fun!” The response was from Sophie, meaning Sophie hadn’t accompanied her friend on the photography trip into New York. Morhart made a mental note to follow up on that.
He clicked again on the album of images from the city and noticed that Becca had “tagged” someone named Dan Hunter. Not a name Morhart had come across until now.
Morhart knew that tagging was used to identify people depicted in pictures posted to Facebook. It was also a way to make sure that the photographs would also be displayed on the tagged person’s own page.
He clicked on Dan Hunter’s name. His profile photo showed a sandy blond teenager in a basketball jersey shooting a free throw. Morhart scrolled down until he found the postings of Becca’s photographs. “Dan Hunter was tagged in a photograph.” Tiny thumbnail images of Becca’s pictures appeared on Hunter’s virtual wall.
The posting of the images had triggered a comment from an Ashleigh Reynolds,
Becca Stevenson had eighty-two friends.
Eighty-two friends sounds like a healthy number. To maintain eighty-two relationships required a certain degree of social activity and mutual care. But on the Internet, where “friendship” meant nothing other than the click of a mouse, eighty-two “friends” was nothing. Eighty-two friends for a high school sophomore made Becca something of a loner.
Funny how it was the loners who went missing.
Eighty-two friends might not be much in the world of Facebook, but it was too many people for Morhart to track down on his own. He was about to narrow down the field.
He clicked first on the tab for photographs, hoping to find an array of photos matching full names to smiling faces, the high-tech equivalent of a “question these witnesses first” list. Instead, he found only two photo albums. One, labeled “Profile Pictures,” included one shot, a photo of Becca’s little dog. The other, labeled “Big Apple,” featured grainy phone-quality pictures of what looked like Manhattan, posted three and a half weeks earlier. Water. Buildings. Graffiti on brick. No people. No smiling faces. Based on what he’d gathered about the girl’s disposition, he assumed she was trying to be artsy.
He read the postings on Becca’s Wall, the page where her friends could leave messages for her.
The entire first page consisted of messages submitted since Becca’s disappearance had been made public.
Linwood High misses you. Come back soon and safe!
OMG, Becca. Hope you’re just off being wild.
We love you, Becca, and pray that you’re well.
Morhart suspected the trite sayings had been scribbled by classmates who hardly knew the missing girl. He scrolled down further, searching for posts written prior to Becca’s current claim to fame. The level of posting activity suddenly dropped. He read from the bottom up, taking in the earliest posts first.
Four weeks ago, she posted a status update: “I know I shouldn’t, but I do love me some Glee.”
A girl named Sophie Ferrin posted a response: “And you say I’m the dork.”
Sophie Ferrin. Morhart knew the name. Best gal pal. Last to see her around.
Sophie’s post was followed by a second response. “That show is totally gay.” Authored by Rodney Carter. Morhart recognized that name, too. Boyfriend to Sophie. Accompanied the girls to the mall that same night.
He scrolled further up the page, skipping over the postings related to the nonsense games people played on Facebook. Squirreling up loot in one virtual world. A promotion to captain in another. The fertilization of nonexistent farms.
He was only thirty-four years old but felt like a cantankerous old geezer, shaking his head with scorn at the rotting brains of today’s teenagers.
A few days after the Glee posting, Becca had posted another update: “Heading to the city tonight. Woot!” The date matched the upload date for the city images he’d seen in her photo album.
“Have fun, girl, but not too much fun!” The response was from Sophie, meaning Sophie hadn’t accompanied her friend on the photography trip into New York. Morhart made a mental note to follow up on that.
He clicked again on the album of images from the city and noticed that Becca had “tagged” someone named Dan Hunter. Not a name Morhart had come across until now.
Morhart knew that tagging was used to identify people depicted in pictures posted to Facebook. It was also a way to make sure that the photographs would also be displayed on the tagged person’s own page.
He clicked on Dan Hunter’s name. His profile photo showed a sandy blond teenager in a basketball jersey shooting a free throw. Morhart scrolled down until he found the postings of Becca’s photographs. “Dan Hunter was tagged in a photograph.” Tiny thumbnail images of Becca’s pictures appeared on Hunter’s virtual wall.
The posting of the images had triggered a comment from an Ashleigh Reynolds,
Similar Books
