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Maggie’s handwriting still crawls under my skin when I envision it, which is often.

Rain city. Don’t follow the first trail.

He cries better than he tells the truth.

Lucy knows the song, but not the words.

Ben always hated it here.

If I’m gone, I chose the water before the fire chose me.

Tom needs to see it.

Or maybe I need to see his reaction.

Those are not necessarily the same thing.

The drive to his house feels longer today. Wet roads. Logging trucks. My brain running in frantic circles the entire way.

Possible explanations:

1. Maggie panicked and ran.

2. Maggie felt threatened.

3. Tom knows more than he’s saying.

4. The song refers to a memory I need to unlock in Lucy somehow.

5. Fire and water must be metaphorical somehow.

6. I’m losing my mind.

Number six currently has strong momentum.

Tom's house looks frustratingly ordinary when I pull up.

That’s the thing about terrible situations—the world keeps refusing to adjust accordingly.

I walk up to the house. It all seems normal. The lawn still needs mowing, wind chimes still sway on the porch, somebody nearby is grilling onions as though life hasn’t ruptured straight down the middle.

I knock twice.

Tom opens the door wearing yesterday’s clothes and a look that immediately pushes my already overloaded nervous system nearer the edge.

His eyes flick over me. “Lucy okay?”

No hello then. No how are you.

“She’s at school.”

He steps back to let me inside without comment.

The house smells stale. Dirty dishes crowd the sink, kicked-off shoes lay untidily on the living room floor, a tangled nest of blankets cover the couch.

Devastated, in Tom’s case, clearly means aggressively useless.

Tom rubs a hand down his face. “Police call you?”