“Felicity Portman, I know what you did.” The woman’s voice was gruff and low, not a voice I recognized over the crackle of a bad connection. “You are the reason she’s dead. You deserve what’s coming to you.”

My blood ran cold. The hairs on my neck prickled. The dog pulled at her leash. My fingers loosened. My knees wobbled as the door pushed back against me, holding me upright. Terror from the hit-and-run poured into my veins. One hard tug, and the dog took off out into the street just before the door slid closed. I demanded my legs work, carry me to the phone. I reached for the receiver, pressed it to my ear, screaming, “Hello? Hello?” into dead air. She had hung up.

I scrolled through the missed call log, but the number was unavailable. I didn’t know if anyone still used *69 to trace a call, but I dialed it anyway. A maddening beep bounced off my eardrum.

Who was this stranger? Was it the same person who ran me off the road? What did she mean? Was Vera dead?

I was certain my heart was about to explode from my chest. My vision swirled, and sweat popped up across my forehead. One arm felt numb, both legs barely held me upright. The phone receiver clattered beside me as I dropped to the floor. Everything hurt. I couldn’t breathe. A heart attack? Panic attack? I didn’t know how to tell the difference.

I closed my eyes, focused on each breath. For Vera. I needed to stay calm for Vera. I was reminded numerous times by Detective Montgomery not to overreact to every threatening call or misleading letter. I’d gotten hundreds of them when the news first broke that my daughter had gone missing. Angry recluses with nothing else to do wrote accusations of us hurting our own child. Fake sightings filled up my voicemail. Egg spatter and spray paint defaced my store windows. Our house had only been spared because of its distance from the road—and Oliver’s “Trespassers Will Be Shot, Survivors Will Be Shot Again” sign, which discouraged most (but not all) wackos and curiosity-seekers. After a couple months, the threats and sightings and vandalism waned as Vera’s disappearance was forgotten by the general public.

Except one person who apparently didn’t get the memo.

Whoever left the message knew something, it would seem, but it was worded vague enough to cast doubt. Another prank call I could shrug off? Or intimidation from someone who knew what I was hiding? After the hit-and-run, everything felt like a threat.

Out in the street, a distant barking pumped my weakening body back to life. A car swerved past my door, leaving a long honk in its wake. The dog—I had forgotten all about her!