A cousin of Darius’s remembered something: Ottoline had recently asked, out of nowhere, for directions to an old family chapel deep in the mountains near Flagstaff.

We called the police and gave them everything — the name, the footage, the plate on the truck, the chapel.

Then we drove into a downpour that was turning the highway to a river.

The old Merrigan chapel, Darius said, his knuckles white on the wheel; abandoned since the nineties; his grandfather had once stored estate records in its basement.

Halfway up the mountain my phone rang from a number I didn’t know.

“Mommy, please come get me, I’m so cold and I’m scared —” and then the phone was pulled away from her.