Closure isn’t only finding the Magpie Man. It’s finding who I was and who I want to be.

“What’s your therapist like?” I ask.

Bernie says, “She’s a counselor.”

“What’s the difference?”

“I don’t know.”

I know what grief feels like. I know how dark it gets when there’s no way past it.

Maybe I don’t need to forget what happened to Mom to move on. Maybe I can use it to help other people.

“What are you thinking about?” Bernie asks, and I shake myself out of my daydream.

“The future.”

Chapter 101

The messages and comments come thick and fast, mainly from psychos, idiots, and trolls.

There are some from people who genuinely want to help, from people who saw the left behind standing side by side and felt compelled to contact me. That’s what they say, that something “compelled” them to send me a DM or a tweet that tells me nothing I don’t already know.

Did the bus have a security camera? Maybe someone followed her?

Could it have been an ex-boyfriend? When did your mom and dad get together?

I wonder how many more have contacted the phone number given out on the news. I think about calling Lorraine, but if they had an actual lead, she wouldn’t tell me.

I spend two hours reading the messages, quickly deciding which to delete and which to keep. And just as I’m about to log off, a new one arrives.

Hey, my name is Clara. I might know something that could help you.

That’s it. Short, sweet, and vague as hell.

Nasty people can’t hide their nastiness in their writing. Idiots can’t wait to get to the punchline, and trolls are angry and full of swears. Perverts quickly shift from pleasantries to demands.

But this girl is different. She knows something, or at least she thinks she might, so I set up a new account, one only I have access to, then reply.

Hey. It’s Jessica Simmons. Thanks for contacting me. I’d love to hear what you have to say.

No demands, no suggestion of a meeting that might scare her off.

I stare at my screen for ten, fifteen, twenty minutes, feeling increasingly anxious until she replies.

I’m probably being stupid.

Twenty minutes to write four words.

At first, I feel angry, then I wonder if this is a catfish situation, and then once I realize there’s no choice, I reply.

Maybe it’s nothing. But you wrote to me for a reason, and I would really like your help.

Another fifteen-minute wait until she says:

OK.

Chapter 102

Her name is Clara. That’s the only information I have about her. This girl is a mystery, and I’ve got enough of those to solve already. She won’t meet face-to-face, and I don’t blame her.