A door slams in the living room. I pause, hand braced on the foot of the bed, the other sock pulled halfway over my foot, listening for voices outside. I drag up the sock, cracking open the door to find the living room empty. Doug’s jacket is gone from the arm of the couch.

I nearly trip in my hurry to fish the key card from my sock as I race to the door. I wave it over the sensor, but the light doesn’t turn green. I swipe again. Not even a blink. I tear through the apartment, searching drawers and cabinets, behind picture frames and TV monitors, unsure what I’m looking for. How would Jack get out?

I stand on a chair and rattle a vent on the wall, but even if I could get it open, it’s too small to fit through.

A shiver crawls over the back of my neck. Another creeps up my pant leg.

I yelp as I whirl around. A smaze hovers in the air right in front of me.

“You,” I whisper. “What are you doing here?”

The little dark cloud twists and rolls, spinning in circles as if it’s trying to get my attention. It flies past me into the living room, then doubles back, only to zip away again, as if it wants me to follow.

It hovers beside the credenza.

“What? I don’t understand.”

The smaze stretches itself thin, diving behind the cabinet and popping out again. It lingers there, watching me. Then it slides back between the cabinet and the wall until it feels like we’re playing a game of charades.

“Look, I don’t have time for hide-and-go . . .” Seek.

It wants me to find something.

I lean over the credenza, but it’s snug against the wall and I can’t see anything through the narrow space behind it. Grabbing one side, I heft it a few inches. A large metal grate is screwed to the wall—an intake vent, big enough to fit through. When I turn around, the smaze is gone.

Heart racing, I lean my shoulder against the cabinet and push. The plush carpet fights me, but I manage to shove it out far enough to wedge myself into the gap.

Screwdriver. I need a flathead screwdriver. Or a knife. Or a letter opener.

I run to the antique secretary in the bedroom, but it’s been emptied of anything sharp. I try the bathroom, flinging open cabinets and drawers, frantically unzipping a small leather grooming kit. The scissors are conspicuously gone, but the dull metal nail file might do the trick.