Stay With Me by Alison Gaylin

showed him the Snapfish posting.
    “Why?”
    “I guess someone else wants to find Clea,” she said.
    He shook his head. “And thinks they’ll have more credibility if they use your name?”
    “Yep.”
    “Who would do something like that?”
    “Someone else with access to that picture . . . which is in my dresser drawer, so . . .”
    “No other copies?”
    “None that I know of.”
    A look passed over his face, a deepening concern. “Well . . . That narrows it down, I guess.”
    “My point.”
    He cleared his throat. “I can subpoena Snapfish for you. Find the IP address it was posted from.”
    “That takes weeks, doesn’t it?”
    He nodded. “No way around it.”
    “Thanks. Go ahead.” Trent was, of course, a “way around it,” but Brenna didn’t say that. The way Trent got information for her wasn’t always entirely legal and usually involved hacking, and, as far as Nick Morasco went, she’d learned that “don’t ask, don’t tell” was the best approach when discussing the activities of her assistant.
    “I’m sorry,” he said.
    “For what?”
    “All of this. The past few days.”
    She shook her head. “I’m just trying to figure out who else would know that about my father.” She gave him a long look.
    He met it without flinching. “Your mother?”
    Brenna’s heart sped up, but just for an instant. “My mother wouldn’t be able to post something on a Web site,” she said. “She doesn’t even know how to use e-mail.”
    “How do you know that?” he said. “How do you know anything about anyone—other than what they want you to know?”
    She gazed at him for several moments, her reserve softening still. Would he say something like that if he had anything to hide? “You want to order in some dinner?” she said.
    Then her phone rang. She recognized the number and answered fast. “Alan?”
    “I just thought you might like to know, I got another e-mail from BrennaNSpector.”
    Brenna kept her eyes on Morasco. “What did it say?”
    “She’ll be out of touch for a little while.” He sighed out the words. “She hopes she can drop a line eventually about where to send the bag, but for now, just hang on to it. And don’t tell anyone. This is so confusing, by the way. Should I be referring to her as she? Or they? Or you?”
    “Out of touch?” Brenna said. “Why?”
    “You’re gonna love this one.”
    “Oh yeah?”
    “Yep. Just for sheer absurdity.”
    Outside Brenna’s apartment, the sky opened up, rain smashing against the windows. From the way it had felt outside, Brenna would have figured on snow.
    “Wow,” Alan said. “You hear that rain?”
    Brenna nodded. “Weird weather. And speaking of weird . . .”
    “Right,” Alan said. “BrennaNSpector.”
    “Yes.”
    “Well apparently, you’re not going to be e-mailing for a while because you’re in the midst of a family crisis.”
    The rain came out of nowhere, soaking Maya’s hair, her jeans, her stupid pink sweater. She’d started crying again, she wasn’t sure when, but her tears were hot on her face and the rain was freezing and in Maya’s whole life, she’d never felt this wet before.
    She was scared she might catch pneumonia. Would they care? Would those bitches care if I wound up dying on the street?
    She’d left her new coat with them. She’d left her overnight bag, too. After spending so much time trying to figure out the best clothes to pack. God, I’m such an idiot . Right now, Lindsay, Nikki, and Annalee were probably going through her bag and laughing—probably still had the webcam on.
    A couple rushed past her, a coat held up over both their heads like an umbrella. Maya wasn’t sure how it was warm enough to rain, but she didn’t care. It fell in line with everything else, the whole world punishing her—and for what? What had she done?
    Maya thought of her dad—the way he’d looked up at her and smiled as she left. Do I need to speak to Lindsay’s parents? Firm everything