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play house for a couple of days, I might as well sleep in the master bedroom.

I turn to the door behind me. And itā€™s closed.

I stop short. My bagā€™s already halfway off my shoulder, but I push it back slowly. I opened this door, I think. I should have opened all of them.

Did I, though? This room is at the very end of the hallway, so it should have been the last one I checked, but I have no memory of seeing it.

With unsteady fingers, I gently push it open. The lights are still off. When I flick the switch, I look closely this time. I check the walk-in closet, the bathroom suite. But itā€™s just me.

Me, and anything that followed me in.

ā€œYou donā€™t know that,ā€ I whisper to myself. But I do, donā€™t I? I can dismiss Sutton Avenue as a product of my imagination. I can dismiss what Cassie said, if I try hard enough. But Alex Harper looked behind me, and he saw something, too.

And besides. Hypervigilance has given me what must be the worst superpower ever: somehow these days, I can feel when someoneā€™s moving behind me, even when they donā€™t make a sound. Like the air itself is shifting.

I thought it was just the unease. But these past few hours, Iā€™ve become steadily aware of something stirring, just over my shoulder. I feel it even now. With my back to a wall.

I make a quick mental list. One front door, heavy, triple-locked. One back door, sliding glass, an open fishbowl view for anyone who wants to lookā€”but as locked as I can get it. No attic. No basement. And not many places to hide.

I backtrack to the living room and crawl onto the couch, watching the hallway behind me in the reflection of the TV. And for the first time since I left my car last night, everything is still.

The couch cushions are stiff, and I can feel every beat of my pulse pounding against them. Through my ribs, through my back, through my head. Before last May, I donā€™t remember being that aware of the motions of my heartbeat. Now everything I do, from the way I stand to the position I sleep in, feels like an effort to contain it.

And besides. Times like these, when Iā€™m just sitting here, can be the worst of any of it. I waste half of my day wishing things would be this quiet, and when it finally comes, it doesnā€™t feel that peaceful. It feels like waiting.

I uncurl my clenched fingers and pull my shoulders down and back. I try to clear my mind and breathe, like Maurice taught me.

I make it about two minutes.

ā€œShit.ā€ I dig through my pocket until I unearth my sad, cracked phone, and I scroll through my voicemails. I was hoping never to listen to this again. But okay, universe. Fine.

Very gently, I tap Gabyā€™s name. And I let it happen.

There are little details that the radio broadcast missed. I knew that, of course. For the first two weeks, I must have listened to her voicemail every day.

I half expect it to end differently here, in this empty neighborhood, in this symmetrical house. Itā€™s almost a disappointment when nothingā€™s changed at all.

Rose? Are you there? And then a boyā€™s voice behind her, asking her a question, and a little rustle, as if Gaby turns toward him. And this is when she hangs up.

As always, the boyā€™s words are hard to make out. But I know what heā€™s asking. Iā€™ve known for months.

Need a ride?

Gaby and I had a scary amount in common. Our dead fathers. Our iron-willed mothers. Our grandmothers growing up just minutes apart without ever meeting, and our stepfathers sliding into our lives before we knew much else. And for all our personalities could be differentā€”Gaby was outgoing, outspoken, thrived on debateā€”in that moment, it didnā€™t matter. When youā€™re alone, and tired, and stranded, and a boy offers you a ride, you say yes, because you donā€™t know how heā€™s going to react to no.

To be fair, I donā€™t think Gaby was afraid of what would happen when she got into his car. I think she just didnā€™t like him.

My phone buzzes in my hands, a pinpoint hit to my startle reflex. It takes a second to hold the text steady enough to read.

Let me know if you need anythingā€”Cassie

An ellipsis pops up. Then another text.

Or if youā€™re just bored, I guess.

I laugh shakily, tap out a will do. And before I put my phone down, I add Cassie Cyrene to my contacts.

I should sleep. That seems like the most sensible idea. But as many nights as Iā€™ve spent lying awake, wishing my upstairs neighbors would shut the entire hell up, I think Iā€™ve actually found somewhere thatā€™s too quiet.

I try the remote, not expecting anything. But it flips on to a womanā€™s smiling face.

The background shivers behind her, like movement trying to break through. The words are garbled, the feed jerky and unnatural, like a stream thatā€™s still buffering.

I change the channel. This oneā€™s playing smoothly, but itā€™s hard to tell until I turn up the volume to hear the soft, trancelike soundtrack. The image of the dusk-lit playground looks still, at first, but when I look closer, I can see the swing rocking gently, on its own.

White words swim into view: What do you yearn for?

Unnerved, I flip forward again.

You might say, ā€œBut, Joe, they donā€™t understand our ā€˜human laws,ā€™ā€ booms the man on camera, finger-quoting the last two words. I say, they can learn! If youā€™ve got a neighbor-related property disputeā€”

Pulling a face, I flip forward one more time. But it looks like all Iā€™ve got for channels is this public access hellscapeā€”Iā€™m back to the smiling woman from the start, her blonde waves just so, her teeth glinting as brightly as her pearls. This time, the signal comes through:

Some will tell you Iā€™m questioning our values. She walks toward the camera down the length of a

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