“Hey,” he said, eyes lightly skimming over me, then lingering on my hand with the screwdriver. “Didn’t mean to make you nervous. I just…” He gestured to his car. “I tried your neighbor first, but he didn’t answer, either.”

  “I didn’t hear you.” I held up the screwdriver, then placed it on the entryway table. “I was just fixing something.”

  His eyes changed, almost like he was trying to smile. He shifted on his feet, standing on the other side of the doorway. “When I was here earlier, Detective Rigby, she said we’d need to get permission to get closer, that the… the material from the scene had all been gathered already, and that’s private property. I said no, I didn’t want to bother anyone. But here I am again, and I don’t know why. Why I keep driving past, why I stopped this time… It’s not like he’s still here, like it means anything… I don’t even know where it happened, exactly, and I’m trying not to trespass, I’m just trying to feel something.”

  It took until he was halfway through his rambling for me to realize he was asking for permission. That I was the one who could grant it, allowing him onto my property. I thought about calling Detective Rigby, asking if she needed to be here, but I wanted to keep things light and unofficial, make myself a tangential component—in on the information but out of the picture.

  “I can show you,” I said. “If you want to see?”

  He tipped his head once, then started following me down the porch steps. We walked in silence toward the edge of the property, my stride somehow matching his, though he was solidly over six feet tall, and I was only a few inches over five feet.

  The crime scene tape was gone, the police done collecting the evidence, but the spot where Sean Coleman had been found had a pull to it, like a black hole. Some of the dirt had been dug out around the body. What remained was a slight dip, upturned earth patted back down unnaturally. I stopped a few yards short, and Nathan did the same.

  He was staring at it like he could see something in the emptiness. Something below this level. But all I noticed was the proximity to my house behind us: the bedroom window in sight; the light inside, and a straight view down the hall.

  I didn’t belong out here, sharing in the grief of this man I’d never met and didn’t know existed until mere hours ago. “Take all the time you need…” I said, stepping back.

  He turned to face me then. “We weren’t close,” he said, rooting me in my spot. Because I understood how sometimes that makes it worse. How you’re trying to feel a connection across the absence. I’d searched for it myself inside that sad box delivered to my front porch. Would I have felt more if I’d found the spot where she had died? I didn’t even know whether it had happened in a hospital, or a hotel room, or a house. Whether she was found alone on a street somewhere—or worse.

  Maybe it was the uncertainty that kept pulling me back. The guilt about all the things I didn’t know and hadn’t asked.

  “My mother died earlier this year, and I didn’t even know it,” I said.

  He nodded once, never breaking eye contact.

  “She was cremated before I could even claim her.” The guilt, coexisting with the knowledge that it wasn’t my fault, that it was for the best that I’d cut off contact.

  I knew then why I was out here with him. Why he’d seemed familiar in a way I couldn’t quite put my finger on. It was something I recognized in myself. A separate exterior that presented as a hardness in him. But I could recognize its presence, something similar to my own. A shell formed out of necessity, of loss, of survival. And in that moment, it felt like we were two surfaces reflecting, an endless hall of mirrors.

  “Do you feel safe here?” he asked, talking so low I had to lean in to hear the deep timbre of his voice.

  But there was too much to sift through in the question. “I used to,” I said. Now there had been someone killed within sight of my bedroom window. Now I knew a woman had died from a gunshot wound in the house next door. Now I could hear the echo of crime scene tape fluttering in the place it used to be.

  A cold dread seeped into my bones. I shivered, deciding whether to ask about the investigation—nervous about where that conversation could lead. But I had to get information. It was the only way to keep on top of the story, not let it take you over and consume you. I looked back toward the main road. “Did they find his car?” I asked.

  He shifted his jaw slightly, mulling over either the question or me. “On a different road nearby. The police have it now.”

  So he’d driven here. Not dumped here, like Elyse had thought. He’d driven, and kept his car hidden, and walked…

  “You’re scared,” he said.

  I nodded, because it was the truth. But also because I didn’t know what had happened out here. Worried that it could’ve happened to me just as easily. That anyone could’ve gotten into my home.

  He took in the scene once more, gaze moving from the spot in the yard, to Rick’s house, to my own. “I won’t take any more of your time, Olivia. Thank you for this.”

  We walked back toward his car in my driveway. He lingered in the spot between his car and my front porch, like he wanted to say something more.

  “Do you want to come in?” I asked on impulse. Because, despite my misgivings, I was always trying to undo someone else’s damage. Or maybe it was something baser than that. Maybe because, like he said, I was scared. “I could get you something to drink. Or eat. Before you head back.” I wasn’t sure which hotel he was staying at, but none of the hotels in the area was particularly inviting.

  He looked at my front door for a long moment. It seemed like he very much wanted to come in. But he shook his head. “I should be getting back, get some sleep, get my head on straight.”

  “Right. Okay. Me, too.”

  He took out his wallet and slipped a card from a pocket. “My cell is on the back. In case you want to talk. I’ll be in town at least a few more days.”

  I was standing on my porch while he backed out of my drive. When he was out of sight, I saw, through the trees, Rick’s porch light switch on.

  * * *

  MY PHONE WAS RINGING when I stepped inside—and my stomach dropped, my mind always flashing back to the body in the yard. Then I was overwhelmed with the hope that it was Elyse, finally returning my calls. But instead it was a video call from Jonah.

  Better to be done with this once and for all than have him calling weekly until he got the message. I answered with a curt “Yes?”

  Jonah didn’t seem to get the tone. He smiled widely, sitting in his favorite chair in the living room. I could picture the crystal tumbler just out of frame. “Finally caught you,” he said. “Is now a better time, Liv?”

  “Not really,” I said. “Jonah, listen, I shouldn’t have texted you back. I don’t want to go back to the way things were—”

  “Neither do I. I was a fool, Liv, can you give me a second for an apology?”

  I closed my eyes. A year too late, a year smarter, and Jonah just one more thing that was best left in the past. God, why was everything resurfacing all at once? How could you become someone new when everyone kept pulling you back to the person you once were? How could you fight that sort of gravity?

  “I accept any and all apologies, Jonah. But I’ve moved on, and it’s absolute chaos here. So, no, this is not actually a better time.”

  “Is it the hospital?” he asked, sitting upright. “Did something happen?” Because that was his project, a way he could claw his way back to essential.

  “No. There’s a literal crime scene outside my house, okay? Someone died.”

  Jonah’s face was a blank sheet. He was not good at the unexpected, never was. Liked to be in control, in the classroom and out. He’d seen this conversation going one way, but it had suddenly veered, and he was slow to recover.

  The phone wobbled as he switched hands, brought himself too close to the frame, his features losing proportion. “Who? Who died?”

  I lifted one shoulder in an exaggerated shrug. “No one you know. No one who worked at the hospital. It doesn’t involve you.”

  “I should be there,” he said. “You shouldn’t be alone there right now. God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.”

  “No, you shouldn’t. I’m not alone, Jonah. Drop it.”

  His eyes narrowed now, like a different path was presenting itself. “You’re seeing someone?” A condescending tilt to his head. “Tell me, is it Bennett? Of course you are. You always did like being taken care of.” He lowered his voice, his entire demeanor shifting. “This isn’t the right move, Liv.”

  “You don’t know me as well as you think. You’re wrong about all of it.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Am I, now?”

  I shifted my jaw; I hated getting drawn into his circular discussions, which would inevitably lead exactly where he intended them to end.

  “Both options can’t exist at once, Liv.” Like he could apply his logic to life. Twist the data to fuel his own argument. “Are you seeing someone, or are you alone?”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  I could hear the ice in his glass. He took a sip before speaking. “Well, it’s after nine p.m., and you’re home, and no one else is there. So it seems to me we both know the answer.”

  This was how Jonah worked, talking me in circles, doing the same in a meeting, in his class. So he always came out on top. And he was right—I did like being taken care of. Where he was wrong was in assuming he was ever the one to provide that stability.

  Something had changed, in either him or me. But I could finally see him clearly for everything he was. A leech. Needing attention to thrive. Needing to feel superior and knowing he could get that only from someone younger, less established, less sure of herself.

  I hadn’t formed strong connections with my classmates, didn’t like their questions about parent weekends, or visiting home, or summer plans. I dove into my studies, and took internships and jobs, and Jonah liked my drive, my maturity. The exterior shell I presented as a defense. An interior he could mold at his will.

  Three seconds to escape. One step to extricate myself from this conversation.

  “Jonah? Don’t call me again.”

  And then I did what I should’ve done months ago, a year ago, before that, even—the first time he texted me personally: I’ve been thinking about what you said in class all day. Would love to discuss further. The thrill was the same, then and now, as I blocked his number.

  * * *

  I DIDN’T TAKE THE pill, and slept lightly. Later at night, I heard a car driving by, and I pictured Nathan Coleman, not sleeping, drawn back to the scene of his father’s death, over and over. How we were all being drawn back together. And how I could see myself clearly, finally, reflected in someone else. How grief and survival could coexist. How, despite what Jonah believed, you could hold two versions of the truth—and yourself—in your hand at the same time, and both could be completely real.

  FINDING ARDEN

  Copyright: Laurel Maynor, 2002

  Excerpt, p.1

  I knew she was gone before I woke. It was pure intuition.

  I knew my daughter better than any other living being.

  When Arden was little, I could tell if she’d be sick the next day. When she’d run down the hill out back, I could tell in the moment before when she was about to fall.

  I woke up on the morning of October 17 earlier than usual. Something had woken me. There was a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I started calling her name before I even got to her room.

  My heart was racing before I got there, even though I couldn’t explain why.

  And then I saw her empty bed. And I knew for sure. It was my worst nightmare.

  People often ask me if I believed that Arden would be found alive, especially as one day turned to two, and two days turned to three. The answer is always yes, and that’s the truth. Because there were other things I knew about my daughter besides the fact that she was missing:

  I knew she was a fighter. She came into this world kicking and screaming. I swear she could be heard clear across the county the day she was born.

  I knew she wouldn’t go out of this world without a fight, either.

  CHAPTER 16

  Monday, 8 a.m.

  I WAS RELIEVED TO WAKE and find my room exactly as I’d left it. Ladder tucked away in the closet, hook and eye securely latched, phone facedown beside me. I’d even locked the window, just to add a few extra steps. I hadn’t even known how to lock it until last night, when I ran my fingers along the border, feeling for the latch. The window was unreachable from the ground outside, anyway.

  Elyse still hadn’t contacted me, and I couldn’t help but swing by her apartment once more on the way in to work. It stung that she was avoiding me—more than I thought it would, given my history. But whatever had happened between her and Bennett was partly my fault. I’d thought, if I could just talk to her, I could convince her to come back.

  It took a little longer to get inside the apartment building this time; apparently, I’d missed the morning rush, both in and out.

  This time it was her neighbor across the way who held the door. He didn’t seem to recognize me in his rush, barreling through the doorway in his slacks and button-down.

  “Hey, excuse me, have you seen Elyse?”

  He did a double take, then leaned against the door as he slid me into context. “She moved out.”

  My stomach dropped. “Are you sure?”

  He shrugged. “Her apartment’s vacant. That’s all I know. Maybe the lady next door, in 121—Erin, I think?—she might know more. They hung out a lot. I think they worked at the hospital together. She might already be gone for the day, though. We all usually leave around the same time.” He checked his watch, then let the door swing shut behind him.

  I couldn’t think of any Erin I knew who worked with us, but if she wasn’t in our department, that wasn’t saying much.

  I walked down the hall to Elyse’s apartment. Even the wreath and the doormat were gone. I knocked once just in case, pressed down on the handle, but it was locked.

  A door clicked open somewhere down the hall, then closed again. Apartment 121, I thought, but no one was out in the hall. Maybe just a trick of the acoustics, and it was a door around the corner, out of sight.

  But I paused in front of apartment 121 on my way out. The doorway was bare, with no personal touches. I knocked twice and swore I could hear movement inside. A presence on the other side of the door. A shadow at the peephole, looking out.

  “Hi, I’m looking for Elyse?” I said, in case anyone was there.

  But if they were, they didn’t move again. I started to doubt myself, what I’d heard, what I’d felt.

  I remembered suddenly how spooked Elyse had been at my house—looking out the window, the fear transferring to her by proximity. And Nathan, asking if I felt safe there. Even he could sense the danger radiating from my place. Could I really blame her for leaving? Wouldn’t I have done the same if I’d had some other place I considered home?

  * * *

  EVERYONE TRIED TO ACT normal when I arrived at the hospital. Faces that were either too friendly, or people who averted their gaze entirely, pretending to be absorbed in their phones.

  I had found a dead body outside my house, and everyone knew it. Everyone knew I’d been brought in with the detective. I could only imagine the type of gossip swirling through the back channels, whispered between shifts in the lounge.

  I stopped in the cafeteria for breakfast and coffee, which wasn’t my normal routine. But I needed the caffeine to focus; I felt slow, a step behind.

  This early in the day, there was just a scattering of people around the tables. But I felt their eyes on me, their voices falling to whispers. On my way out of the cafeteria, I passed a nurse from the ER. She did a stutter step in the hall, called out a too-loud “Good morning!” as I passed. As if surprised to see me back at work.

  Or maybe I was just projecting. Maybe she didn’t know me at all, was surprised to see anyone in her path. Maybe I was just vaguely familiar to her, as she was to me.

  I took the back stairwell again, my steps echoing in the silence. The distance between the click of one door latching and the other opening on the third floor was something I could count in my head. Thirty-two steps. Half a minute.

  Inside my wing, the hall was strangely empty. Since I’d stopped for breakfast, I wasn’t as early as I’d been on Friday, before the shift began. By now, the morning rounds were usually in full swing, and the administrative meetings were getting started.

  Bennett was typically off on Mondays, but I walked by the nurses’ lounge, just in case his schedule had shifted to accommodate the past weekend. The only person inside was the woman with auburn hair, on her phone again. Same as last week, when I’d backed into the medicine room.

  I was overcome with a vague sense of déjà vu. I knew the nurses who worked up here best. Though everyone could use the lounge, they were the ones who’d usually be resting on the couch.

  A door opened behind me, a man in scrubs leaving the medicine room. He saw me standing there and smiled. “Morning,” he said. But he took a minute turning the lock to the medicine room behind him, even as I walked away.

  My stomach churned, imagining the stories. It was the same feeling I had gotten ten years earlier, people watching and talking, before the panic attack that I didn’t know was a panic attack. The slow buildup, and the rapid unraveling, before I recognized it for what it was and could put a name to the physical reaction.

  Would it escalate, as it had back then? The comments? The attention? Until I found myself trapped—at the mercy of something else beyond my control?

  Ten years earlier, everything had boiled over with an incident in the gym locker room.