That night, he returned to the room in Roxbury. He sat on the cot and held the photo under his flashlight. The locket. He zoomed in on the photo’s reflection—just barely visible in the polished silver was the face of a man, standing behind the photographer. A man Taggart recognized.
He slipped through a broken window.
Below the scratched-out face, written in pen so small he needed a magnifying glass: “The man who never existed. The reason I became a ghost.” abby winters 2004
Taggart drove back to Boston with a new theory: Abby Winters hadn’t disappeared because she was scared. She had disappeared because she had found something—and the only way to stay alive long enough to use it was to erase herself from every database, every memory, every map except the ones she drew herself. That night, he returned to the room in Roxbury
“You found the room,” Lena said, handing him a cup of tea. It wasn’t a question. He zoomed in on the photo’s reflection—just barely