Page 13 of Psyop Kings

“At least try to get in touch with her family,” I mutter. “And if you learn that she’s safe, please let me know so I can stop worrying.”

He forces a smile. “Sure thing.”

I wait for a few long seconds to see if he’ll get to working on inputting the form into the computer right away, but instead, he goes back to scrolling on his phone, the paper discarded on his chaotic desk, probably forgotten.

This is ridiculous.

I’m going to have to find her myself.

I hurry out of the police station, eager to get away from the filthy detective. Once I’m seated in my car that smells of vanilla sugar cookies, I relax and continue my hunt on Instagram to see if she’s responded to me or posted anything.

Still nothing.

I painstakingly look through each and every account she follows—all four thousand two hundred and fifty-three of them. The one account that gives me pause is a name I’ve seen before.

Crowne Unity Project.

The aesthetic for their page is crisp navy and shiny gold—an extension of their pamphlet I’d found. It’s overly curated to show perfectly captured humanitarian efforts, educational program benefits, environmental projects, and celebrity endorsements or collaborations. Everything about it screams fake to me.

Don’t chase rabbits that don’t exist, Romy.

I ignore a mantra Maura always tries to get me to say when she thinks my thoughts are running away from me and making up things that aren’t really there.

There’s something strange about CUP, though. I just can’t put my finger on it.

When my scrolling finally brings me to someone not smiling, I stop. The white-haired man is older, maybe in his late sixties, and sits at the end of a boardroom table, hands steepled, expression fierce. The description reads, “Orion Crowne carries humanity on his shoulders and he takes his job seriously. The world depends on him.” It’s littered with catchy hashtags like #CUPvision, #HopeForAll, and #CUPgivesback.

This man, Orion Crowne, seems to be the face of the organization. Based on CUP’s social media presence, probably ran by some intern around my age, he’s serious about making the world a better place.

I don’t remember Megan mentioning ever wanting to be involved in CUP. But she had a brochure and also follows them. With her sudden disappearance, I can’t rule it out. This feels like an important clue to me. I spend far too long searching through all the photos but don’t find anything of interest. I’m about to close out the app and head back to USC when a new post comes through.

The picture is of a well-known pop singer hugging a small child from a destitute foreign country. The caption says, “Looking forward to seeing Cazey Tee at tonight’s annual fundraiser where she’ll be speaking about her recent trip to Haiti!”

A quick Google search tells me this year’s fundraiser is located in San Francisco. Something deep in my gut urges me to find a way to go.

I need answers.

I know I’ll get them there.

Since the event is invite only, I’ll have to lean on my Langston resources if I want to get in. Not wasting a second, I tap out a text to Sarai.

Me: I don’t want to bother Dad, but I need to get into an event tonight. It’s for a school project.

After I shoot her a screenshot of the website and event details, I wait for a response. It only takes my dad’s assistant fifteen minutes to reply with what I need.

Sarai: I’ve booked a private jet for two hours from now and a room at the hotel of the event. You’ll have a dress, shoes, and accessorieswaiting in your room. Event ticket will come via email shortly. Shall I go ahead and also book your travel for Christmas?

Since I don’t want to make waves with Sarai, I confirm that she can proceed. Ignoring a chill that ripples down my spine, I can’t help but wonder if I’m chasing rabbits that don’t go anywhere.

There’s only one way to find out.

As promised, a teal-colored, sequined evening gown with matching shoes and purse was waiting in my room when I arrived earlier this evening. It’s strange to be in this “world” again. It was only a few months ago that I was dressed in something similar while attending a NYC gala with my family. When I came to LA for college, I didn’t pack one fancy item. I’d hoped for a change.

Until this week, USC was everything I’d hoped for. I like college and the change of scenery. The whole Megan fiasco, though, has put a wrench in everything.

My phone alarm pings with a reminder that the event starts in twenty minutes. I run the flat iron through my hair once more and then move my head from side to side. The golden-blond strands swish prettily. Normally, Eva would suggest I wear my hair up for a black-tie event, but Eva’s not here. I’m on my own and this emboldens me to do something for me—even something as simple as wearing my hair down.

I quickly finish my makeup, making sure my lash extensions look good framing my sky-blue eyes. My lips then get a quick pass of gloss before I smack them for good measure.

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