I pull out my phone to call Zoey again. I’ve been messaging her all evening with no response, but I don’t know what to do now, where to go next. I push her number in my contacts list and wait. But I hear a subtle buzz. I scan her desk, moving a piece of paper, and find her abandoned phone on the desktop with eleven missed calls from me, and now one from Holly too.

There are also a couple of texts from Jacob warning Zoey that I’m looking for her.

He must’ve sent those from school.

What the hell? She wouldn’t leave without her phone. Maybe she’s here somewhere, hopefully just running to the bathroom and not hiding from me.

But as I stand in the cold room, suspicion worms its way through me and I look around a bit more. The refrigerator door is cracked open.

“Zo?” I say, pulling the door wide. Inside, I see an overturned mop bucket. I bend down to touch the mess of bleachy water to find it’s cooled to refrigerator temperature.

It’s been here a while, way longer than it would’ve taken her to get something to clean it up if she’d accidentally spilled.

Something is wrong. She is here, her phone tells me that, but she’s not here.

“Zoey!” I shout, but only my voice echoes back to me without an answer from her.

My gut drops, and with wild eyes, I scan the refrigerator, even though the space is small enough that I’d see her if she were in here, and then the morgue, looking under the tables.

In the hallway, I shout again, “Zoey!”

There are a couple of doors, but they’re both locked, and I run for the stairs as an inexplicable panic begins to fill my veins. Halfway up the stairs, Alver rounds the corner of the landing and shuffles to a stop.

“What are you yelling for? Ain’t no need for all that racket,” he says grumpily.

I grab him by his shirt, lifting his frail body to push him against the wall. “What did you do to her? Where’s Zoey?”

His eyes are frantic, looking left and right for a way out as he blusters, “What’re you talking about, asshole? Put me down!”

From scant inches away, I snarl, “Where. Is. She?”

Realizing the only way out of this situation is to answer the fucking question, he finds the ability to focus. “I don’t know,” he says, trying to shrug. “Haven’t seen DDG since early this afternoon. She’s not here, thank the good Lord for small miracles.”

“She is. Or was. Her phone’s on her desk and the mop bucket is spilled in the fridge.”

Alver’s mouth gapes dumbly. “Huh? Well, I don’t know. I ain’t seen her.”