Crouches up, and a devastating scream resounds through the office.
It hits me somewhere so deep in my chest that tears flood my eyes.
I don’t know what to do.
I am not made for crisis.
She’s dead.
El is dead.
And—
Panic sweeps through my chest.
This can’t be about me.
But my body can’t cope.
I retract.
I need to be there for her.
Instead, I stand here backed against a wall.
I watch what is playing in front of my eyes, the agents talking to Amelie, putting a hand on her back, helping her up, and placing her on a chair.
My breathing is so flat, I gasp for air.
One of the agents kneels in front of her.
She looks up.
He says something I cannot hear.
Amelie stares at him.
I see it happen.
Her eyes become empty.
Hollow.
Emotionless.
Like a switch turned.
Her shoulders fall back.
She straightens.
“No,” she says. “She left me a note that she had to do something. I tried to find her. She took my credit card. I told her to take it if she wanted to leave. I figured that’s what she did.”
Her voice is so robotic, it doesn’t even sound human.
While I watch them, my breathing calms.
“We’d need to see where she lived,” says the agent.
