"Did you really send me this?" My thumb slides back up the screen; the message is still there, bright and small, two a.m. timestamp glowing like an accusation. "Show me." Miles's voice is low on speaker, soft like he's trying not to wake the building. He never sounds that way when he's worried. He sounds like a man making room for panic. "This isn't her," I say. I read it out loud anyway. "Hey you, come over. I need you. Don't tell anyone." "That’s not Cordelia," Miles says. "She wouldn't text like that at two in the morning." "I know." My phone vibrates in my palm. The screen shakes more than I do. "I'll call her," he says. "Let me call her." "Do it." I watch the call bar climb. One ring. Two rings. Straight to voicemail. He swears under his breath. "Shit. Is that—" "I tried her number three years ago," I say. "It didn't work. I lost that phone. I told you." "You lost a phone three years ago?" Canon's voice is not on the line. Canon is not here. Miles is. Miles has been the steady part of everything I let stay steady. "I told you," I repeat. "But this number—this message shows on the live account she uses. The public streamer account." "Someone could be using her account," Miles says. "Someone could have access." "Someone could have anything in this city." I don't