My hands feel numb as I peel open the flap and tip the envelope up, dumping the contents into the trunk. The other smaller envelopes spill out in a hiss of paper, along with an assortment of miscellaneous items that must have been at the bottom of the mailer. A map of Pennsylvania, Harper’s wallet, and a battery that I’m guessing is Brecken’s. But my eyes lock on a familiar black rectangle with a shattered screen. My phone.

This is the stuff that was taken.

My throat tightens. I touch my phone’s shattered screen and spot one of the envelopes underneath. Mira Hayes. I shove everything else away and focus on the envelopes. They are all unopened and addressed to me. But the address in San Diego isn’t familiar. My face goes cold as I run my finger over my name, a high-pitched whine ringing in my ears. I scan the postmark dates spelled out in red inked postage stamps. February 4. April 8. June 12. August 30. November 15.

One of the envelopes bears my first name only, neatly printed across the front. It looks fresher. Newer than the rest. A sick certainty tells me I do not want to read these. I pause, spotting the single unfolded sheet of crisp white paper. It was on the top when I looked at the envelope.

I swallow as I turn it over. I read one line and know I am right to be afraid.

I should be terrified.

Mira,

I can smell you in this car.

I can hear you sigh.

I can feel the way your breath shifts the air.

Every one of my senses is full of you, and still you don’t see me.

But you will.

You aren’t calling your parents again, Mira. You aren’t going to Pittsburgh. You aren’t going home. You’ll stay here, deep in the mountains. I’ll find a place, a private place where no one will find us.

Maybe then you’ll see me.

Maybe then you’ll understand that you’re mine.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The letter slides from my hand, floating down to the scattered envelopes below. I try to step back, and my knees go to water. I hear Harper and Brecken at the front tires. The shink of the shovel over and over. Kayla approaches, her steps crunching. I pitch forward, catching myself on the side of the car with my hands. I can’t breathe.

Can’t breathe.

But I have to.

I force air into my squeezed-shut throat and ignore the thumping of my heart. The chatter of my teeth. Think. I need to think. My gaze drifts down to the wallet. The phone. The envelopes.

They all show an address on Tribune Street. My brain searches every crevice of my memory, trying to make sense of it. What does that address mean to me? Is it familiar? I know Tribune Street… It’s—