“What?”

“Gentile eyes, WASPY. But, wow, this is scary. You must’ve been scared.” Lauren looked up, her forehead buckling, and Christine could read the sympathy in her expression.

“I’m worried it’s the same person. Marcus doesn’t think so.”

Lauren palmed the mouse. “Wait, hold on. What’s the name of the serial killer?”

“Zachary Jeffcoat.”

“Okay.” Lauren navigated to Google, plugged in Zachary Jeffcoat, and searched under Images. A mosaic of the prisoner’s face flooded the screen, and Christine tried to take in all the faces, photographed from different angles. Most of the photos had been taken after his arrest, shot in the same sunlight, with him wearing the same clothes. Some of the other photographs were of dark-haired men who weren’t him, and there were two black men. But the overwhelming number were the blond prisoner. Something about seeing them all together was nightmarish, as if the parts all added up to the same place, Christine’s worst fear.

“Hold on,” Lauren said, on task. “Let’s look him up on Facebook.”

“Really? A serial killer, on Facebook?”

“Why not? Everybody’s on Facebook.” Lauren logged out of Google and navigated to Facebook, typing in her name and password, then she plugged in Zachary Jeffcoat, and a full page of Zachary Jeffcoats popped onto the screen. Some showed men with families who looked older, some were African-American, but there were plenty of shadowy faces from pages that were kept private.

“All I know about him is he’s from Nevada and that he’s in medical school. I don’t know his hometown or where he goes to school, they don’t tell you that.”

“Hmmmm.” Lauren scrolled down through the thumbnails. “I don’t see anybody from Nevada. Or anybody from a medical school. He’s got to be on Facebook. He’s young and good-looking and a medical student.”

“He might be keeping his settings private.”

“Right.” Lauren logged out of Facebook and navigated to Instagram, plugging in her username and password. “You never know, right? It’s certainly worth checking.”

“Right.” Christine watched, her stomach still tense.

“Okay, so he’s not on Instagram, at least under his name. Let me check Twitter.” Lauren’s fingers flew across the keyboard, and Christine felt a wave of gratitude for her best friend.

“What would I do without you?”

“Without me, you would’ve ended up with a coconut sheet cake, which I know you hate.” Lauren shook her head, eyeing the Instagram search. “I’m not seeing him. Is it odd that he is not on social media? I mean everybody is, especially his generation.”

“Not necessarily. Some people boycott. Not everybody’s a teacher.” Christine wanted to laugh it off. It was a running joke that teachers were more obsessed with social media than teenagers, but they used it for exchanging lesson plans, telling each other new ways to engage students, and sending links to the latest mole in district headquarters, who leaked them confidential info about what was coming from Common Enemy.

“That’s true.” Lauren half-smiled.

“I don’t think it means anything. We know teachers who hide their identities online. They don’t want the administration to know. He might go under ScooterGuy, or Reds fan, or something like that.” Christine was starting to convince herself. “Like, Marcus’s firm has a professional page on Facebook, but he also has a personal page under Golden Bear Posse, for his golf buddies.”

“I never knew that.”

“You know he loves Jack Nicklaus.” Christine gestured at Marcus’s treasured piece of sports memorabilia, a framed U.S. Open poster that Jack Nicklaus had autographed, with a color photograph of the golfer with his nickname, Golden Bear.

“Cute. Why do they have the Facebook page?”

“They post videos of their swings and critique each other.”

“Whatever.” Lauren chuckled. “Anyway, as far as your donor, I don’t think it means anything that he’s not on social media. I take it back.”

“Unless he gave an alias to the bank,” Christine said, the thought coming out of nowhere “But I’m sure they verify who somebody says he is when he donates. If a donor is trying to hide something, he can do that.”

“But it’s not like they give them a lie detector test.”

“No, right. Here, look at his bio.” Christine pulled over the Donor 3319 profile.

“I remember looking at this,” Lauren said, frowning as she read, then looked up. “You know, you could call the bank and just tell them what you’re worrying about.”

“Homestead? That’s not how it works. I never dealt with them. Dr. Davidow orders it, I never dealt with them at all.”

“Then I think you should call him.”

“You do?” Christine glanced at the clock on the computer, which read 7:45. “It’s after hours.”

“So leave a message. It doesn’t have to be an emergency. Just say you have a question about your donor.” Lauren reached for her arm and gave it a soft squeeze. “Honey. I know it’s going to bother you, that’s why I’m telling you to call. But if you ask me, they’re not the same person.”

“Okay, I will. Hold on a sec.” Christine picked up her phone, scrolled through CONTACTS, and called Dr. Davidow’s cell. The call rang twice then was picked up.

“Hello?” Dr. Davidow answered warmly. “Christine, hi!”

“Hi, Dr. Davidow.” Christine felt her heart leap at the sound of his voice. He had been so good to her, through everything. “Sorry to bother you.”

“No worries. How are you? How can I help you?”

“Do you mind if I put you on speaker? My friend Lauren is here, and I want her to listen in.”

“Sure, no problem.”

“Great, thanks.” Lauren pressed the button to put the call on speaker. “Can you hear me?”

“Sure,” Dr. Davidow answered, his voice echoing in the quiet room. “So what’s the problem, how are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, but I happened to see a news report on television today about a serial killer being arrested, and when I looked at the video, it looked a lot like our donor.” Christine felt silly, but she wasn’t stopping now. “I know that sounds strange, but I think I recognize him from the two pictures we have, one baby and one adult. Is that even possible?”