“A victim.”
My breath jerks back into me, uneven gasps leaving my lips. Anger surges up, washing away years of practiced restraint.
“Are you kidding me?” I yell, leaning toward her.
She shakes her head again.
“I am not doing this,” I say, my hand wrapping around the door handle. I pull it open.
“Emily,” she whispers. “If not for the case,” she exhales, “then for the families. They need answers.”
“No,” I say. “You are not turning me into bait.”
“There are still victims without names,” she says. “Jane Does. We need locations. We need answers.”
My jaw tightens. Slowly, I set Daisy down on the ground and grab her leash. My hands are still shaking.
“You are a shit person,” I say quietly. “You know that.”
She doesn’t argue.
“But you are right,” I add. “Those families deserve answers.”
“Good,” she says. She holds out a piece of paper. “This is my number. In case you need it.”
I take it. Nod once.
“Bye,” I mutter, already turning away.
I hurry toward my apartment, my pulse roaring in my ears.
Knowing the truth is worse than the fear ever was. I always felt watched. Now I know I wasn’t imagining it. There’s something cruel in that. In being right.
Fear dulls you. Awareness doesn’t. It cuts. It leaves you exposed.
And whatever comes next, I’ll have to be ready.
19 years old
It was my father’s funeral. Just a regularSundayfor me.
I stepped into the house I grew up in with nothing but a backpack slung over one shoulder. Two days of clothes inside. Not more. Just two.
My father always said a house holds onto memories. The irony never escaped me. He made sure most of mine were bad.
I didn’t look around. I didn’t stop to remember anything. I went straight up the stairs to the second floor and into my bedroom.
The door creaked softly as I opened it. Nothing had changed. Drawers still hung open with clothes spilling out. The bed satexactly as I left it, white sheets printed with pink bows, wrinkled as if I slept there just yesterday. No one had bothered to change them.
On the nightstand beside the bed sat a small music box with a ballerina inside. He gave it to me when I was eight, back when all I wanted was to be in ballet.
I sat down on the edge of the mattress, the springs dipping beneath my weight, and let the backpack slide from my shoulder to the floor. I picked up the music box, allowing the cold wood to bite my palms, and opened it.
The soft, tiny notes ofDream a Little Dreamfilled the room.
My mother’s favorite song.
I had almost forgotten.
