When I made it to the city, I went directly to my apartment and showered. I ran hot water over my body for as long as I could tolerate. Then I buried myself under a mound of blankets and slept hard.

At some point, I emerged from my apartment to purchase a new phone. I had three voicemails. There was this sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I realized I had to return calls and try to explain my disappearance.

The first message was abrupt. Jeffery Lomax—the divorce lawyer I use for referrals—had a client for me if I was interested. The second voicemail was from Rochelle. She had left a cackling message thanking me for tanking that “little twat” and her brand. And the final message was from my boss at Lucy’s data processing job. I was fired for repeated no-shows, no-calls. Which, he said, wasn’t too surprising for me.

That was it. No frantic calls trying to locate me. No worried voices urging me to contact them, whoever them—the people who cared about me—were.

Normally, this sort of thing wouldn’t bother me. It’s how I lived my life. Alone. And I preferred it this way. I liked my solitude and didn’t need intimate connections from friends or family. I had always deemed those a burden.

Still, what if I had died during Alex’s torture treatment? What if I never came back? How much time would have passed before someone noticed…and cared?

I tried to shrug off the unease and concentrate on the next steps I needed to take to recover my life, but the thought kept resurfacing, manifesting in a physical symptom, like something akin to homesickness. A queasy feeling I’d heard described by others, but never experienced myself.

So I went to see Vanessa.

My request to stay a few days with my mother was met with a stunned look. Although to be fair, the Botox prevents her facial muscles from displaying varying expressions. But what she said couldn’t have been more clear.

“You’ve never once, in your entire life, asked me for anything, Blakely. Are you ill? Do you need me to make an appointment with Dr. Westfield?”

“I’m not sick,” I told her. At least, I didn’t think I was physically sick. “I just… I think I want to come home for a while.” I had been fiddling with a loose string on my shirt and it snapped. “Have you missed me…at all?”

Another frozen expression. Then: “I don’t know how to answer that, honestly.” She reached for her Prada bag. “Do you need money?”