She didn’t reply.

A while later, she wrote in the group chat, “Nat won’t give me the address. Don’t panic, Mason. Give her time.”

Give me time.

I was already gone, and she was still beside him, playing the endlessly understanding one.

Lukas tapped the desk.

“Nat, I need to tell you something. Please don’t be mad.”

A month later, Claire’s message crossed the nine-hour time difference.

It was three in the morning in Zurich.

Noon in California.

I woke up and glanced at it.

“Mason came to see me last week. He asked

“Nat, did you see the post?”

Claire hadn’t contacted me for two months.

When her message arrived at five in the morning, I almost thought I had misread the name.

“What post?”

“Mason’s Instagram post.”

I had muted his account, so I couldn’t see it.

But Cla