“What does she do here? Why have I never seen Coach Wanda out front before?”

“Because she works solely in stock. The freezers and the shelves.”

McGowan is out of the room before Rain finishes the sentence. She’s pulling boxes from the shelves, two, three, at a time.

“Same writing,” she says.

On the wall, in black marker:

Daphne Lives

She moves quickly to the freezers, pulls the pin, opens the door to the first, enters, rips packages of meat from the shelves.

“Same writing,” she says.

Daphne Lives

“Where is she now? Right now?” she asks.

Rain manages to say, “She quit the same day the first girl from the basketball team died. Said she was grieving.” Then, “Do you need her—”

But McGowan is out of the freezer and through the staff doors.

No, she doesn’t need the address.

She knows where Coach Wanda lives.

Dana needs to find Kit. Now. This second.

Natasha is dead.

There is no sense anymore, no safety, nothing is safe, and nothing feels real.

The fact that Kit hasn’t responded to Dana’s texts (or any, including Natasha’s; and how can this be possible? Dead?) means Kit must’ve gotten killed too. There’s no other explanation. Yet no news about that. And whether it’s from the police, family and friends, ballers, or the actual news, every death has been reported so far. Dana is able to account for every team member but one.

So, she needs to find Kit.

Find her now.

Problem is, there are six squad cars outside Dana’s house. A Samhattan officer in every room. There are even officers from neighboring towns: Chaps, Chowder, East Kent.

Up in her bedroom, she’s alternately hot and cold, empowered and paralyzed.

It’s not hard to imagine Kit unconscious. Hurt. She’s not responding. Maybe she saw the killer, ran, fell, hit her head. She could be unconscious right now and nobody would know where she is. The more she thinks about it, the better this idea sounds. Maybe even the killer doesn’t know where Kit is…

Dana paces.

Of course, Kit could be held captive in a Samhattan basement. Could be enduring torture. Could be…

Dana goes to the window, eyes the cars below. Looks up to the attic square in her bedroom ceiling.

“Kit,” she says. “Where are you?”

Is this real life? But it can’t be. A killer? Here in Samhattan?

“Daphne,” Dana says.

Then she wishes she didn’t. She can’t stand the name. Hates what it stands for. Hates how it makes her feel.

It’s like a vague, traumatic memory from her childhood…something her parents once protected her from…even just the name…a memory of people saying, No, don’t say that, you can say any name but that one…

She calls Kit again. Texts her. Texts the others. Dana is close enough to Kit’s parents to call them. She does.

Kit’s dad answers:

“She’s upstairs,” he tells her. “She doesn’t want to be bothered. Please don’t write her again until this is over.”