Rory
By midnight I'd developed a system, which was really just a nice way of saying I'd developed a problem.
Three tabs of old tagged photos, one spreadsheet, one increasingly strong cup of coffee gone cold on the nightstand — this was what my nights had turned into since the wristband photo, a slow, methodical crawl through two years of Thornebridge hockey party pictures, cross-referencing faces against timestamps against anyone who'd ever stood close enough to my sister to matter. It was tedious in the specific way obsession is tedious, each dead end swallowed whole by the need to check just one more thread before calling it a night.
The party photo from chapter one had given me a wristband. It hadn't given me a name. I'd spent three separate evenings trying to identify everyone visib
