I click and am taken to another screen. Please answer these questions to access your account: Account Holder’s Name? I type in N-I-N-A W-R-I-G-L-E-Y and press return. And then I suck in my breath, my heart pounding as the webpage reloads.
“If she doesn’t have an account, it’ll tell us, right?” I ask. But Sean doesn’t answer; we’re both staring at the screen.
A new screen has appeared, Primary Cardholder’s SSN?
“Does this mean she has an account? I think this must, right?” My voice sounds higher than normal, which is what happens when I’m freaking the fuck out.
“I think so,” Sean whispers.
I type in the number.
Date of birth? My hands are literally shaking.
Please answer the following four security questions.
“Almost in,” Sean whispers.
Mother’s maiden name?
R-A-I-N-E-R.
Name of first pet? When Nina was six, she got a hamster. I was too young to remember, but I remember hearing the story about how my dad took it back to the pet shop because it wouldn’t stop squeaking. His name was Squeekers spelled with two e’s and no a because she didn’t know how to spell squeak. I type in S-Q-U-E-E-K-E-R-S.
I hit return again. I feel like I’m about to vomit.
Name of elementary school?
E-A-S-T O-R-C-H-A-R-D E-L-E-M-E-N-T-A-R-Y.
The last question pops up.
Favorite song?
I start to smile. Nina’s favorite song is Happy Birthday.
I type it in. Hit return.
The screen goes white and a tiny globe spins in the upper right corner of the screen, and then a new message appears.
Welcome, Nina Wrigley.
“Holy fuck,” Sean says.
I click on billing history archive. There are only two charges.
One for $855 at Edge Sports in Edgebridge, Illinois, three weeks before she disappeared. And one for $11.90 at a place called Sweetie’s Diner in Pointview, Nebraska, a week after she was gone.
“Nebraska,” I say. “What the hell was she doing there?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe we should go and find out.”
I turn toward Sean.
Is he serious? He cocks his head toward the door.
I raise my eyebrows.
He grins.
Holy shit, I think he’s actually serious.
But can I really do this?
I stare down at the computer. Sean is almost a complete stranger. But somehow I feel like I already know him. And he really seems to want to help me. And right now he’s the only person in my life who does. And I need to find Nina. And this might be my only chance…
I look at Sean again. He’s staring at me, smiling, nodding slightly.
I take a deep breath.
I nod back.
And that’s how it’s decided.
Eleven
The summer I was twelve my mother sent Nina and me to stay with our Great-aunt Cynthia at her beach house. Our mother had insisted it would be good for us to have a change of scenery, to get out in the sea air, and spend time with our aunt. “But what she really means,” Nina had told me, the night before we left, as she stuffed her old blue duffel bag with handfuls of tank tops, “is that it will be good for her to have us gone.”
“Seriously,” I had said, and rolled my eyes in agreement.
But secretly, I was thrilled about the trip. I loved my aunt’s weird house and the warm Dr. Peppers she kept in the pantry and the lemony soap in the bathroom and the fact that her house was so close to the beach that sand blew in under the door and one time we found a sand crab walking around the living room like he owned the place. But what I was most excited about was the promise of an entire summer of just me and Nina.
Nina complained a lot leading up to the trip, but everything changed after we boarded the train for our aunt’s house. We walked through the train car until we found two empty seats. Without speaking, Nina stopped, stood on her tiptoes, and pushed both our bags up into the racks. Then she turned toward me, gave me her crazy-looking Nina-grin and said, “Looks like it’s just you and me now, buddy,” and flopped down into her seat.
Suddenly she was back to her regular self. And when the ticket taker came by and said “tickets, please,” Nina turned toward me and winked like “check this out” and said to the ticket taker, in a flawless French accent, “Oh, but ov course, here arr our teeckets.” And the ticket taker, a nice-looking older gentleman, took the tickets and smiled, not the humoring smile of an adult who was on to her joke, but the smile of a man who thinks it’s charming that two French sisters were traveling together on his train.