I leap off the bus and dash down the street toward the address memorized in my head. It’s like déjà vu, except the sun is lower and the neighborhood is nicer and there are tears in my eyes that won’t fall, not yet, because I refuse to believe Zoe’s already dead.

It took me two different buses to get to the area where Zoe’s girlfriend lives. I check my watch as I near the boxy, gray apartment building—5:46 p.m., and the police report said she died sometime between four thirty and six. I might still have time.

I circle the building until I find the right unit, then stand in front of the door listening, afraid to do anything else. I don’t want to see what’s inside, because a part of me already knows what I’ll find.

Finally, I knock. No answer.

I wait a moment and then knock again, harder. Still nothing. Why isn’t she answering? Is she already—?

“Zoe?” I yell through the door, pounding on it with my fists.

My inner voice is telling me to run, yelling that I’m setting myself up, but I don’t know what else to do. If there’s a chance Zoe is alive in there I have to try to save her.

I check the doorknob, using my shirt so I don’t leave fingerprints this time. It opens easily—the door isn’t locked.

“Zoe?” I step inside a small studio apartment with drab gray carpet. There’s a queen-size bed with a yellow comforter, a small TV, and a desk. Art decorates the walls, plastering them with sketches, paintings, charcoal drawings. I recognize it as Zoe’s work.

But the place has been trashed—drawers and cabinets open everywhere, clothes thrown across the floor, a broken lamp in the corner. Whoever was here must have been looking for something, but they’re already gone.

I hear the sound of running water from behind a closed door. I try to convince myself that Zoe is just taking a shower, but I remember the crime scene photos and I know what’s coming. I’m already crying as I open the door.

The shower’s on and the room is like a sauna, full of hot, moist air. I smell something metallic that sends waves of primal horror through me. I choke and cover my mouth with my shirt. It’s a tiny bathroom, just a sink, a toilet, and a tub crammed together. I force myself to push aside the shower curtain.