It was from a sneaker, not a huge foot but much larger than Nat’s. A man had come through her window, had stepped on her bed, and riffled through her belongings. What was he searching for? Nat spun around, cataloging her possessions. Everything seemed to be present and accounted for. And then she remembered the gun.

The weapon was stored in the back of her wardrobe, wrapped in a T-shirt, and concealed in an old purse. Oleg had never asked for it back, and Nat had never offered. Setting down her vodka and orange juice, Nat dived into the closet, rummaging for the bag and its dangerous contents. She found the large, fake-leather purse and stuck her hand inside. It was empty.

Maybe she’d moved the nine-millimeter? She wasn’t sure she could trust her memory after all the emotional turmoil she’d experienced. Nat scoured the closet and came up empty. Moving to her dresser, she tore through its contents and found no weapon. Panic rising, she looked under her bed, under the sofa, behind the flat-screen TV, through the kitchen cupboards. And then she remembered the hall closet. On the top shelf she had three shoeboxes filled with knickknacks and trinkets. She pulled one down and opened it. The pistol was there, still wrapped in a plain white T-shirt.

She stared at the weapon with fresh eyes. Oleg had given it to her months ago, when she was weak and frightened and helpless. She was different now. Gabe’s betrayal had changed her, hardened her. Nat had experienced rage and hatred and it had blackened her core. Once, she’d been unsure if she could even point a gun at Cole. Now, she knew she could fire it. If she needed to, she could insert the magazine, rack the slide, and pull the trigger.

Putting the gun back on the shelf, she polished off the vodka and orange juice, contemplating the possibilities. Someone had been in her apartment; she knew it. A random break-in was implausible. A thief would have taken the electronics and the gun. But the footprint was there on the bed, the pillows were tidied, the drawers closed. Who would gain entry to her home only to tidy up? What did they want? Just to rummage through her belongings? Just to be in her space? And then a culprit occurred to her. . . .

Cole.

Grabbing her phone, she called her mom. It was still early on the West Coast, and Allana answered after the first ring.

“Natalie. Finally. I’ve been trying you for weeks.”

Nat ignored the irritation in her mom’s voice. “Is Cole in Blaine?”

“I think so. Why?”

“I think he’s here. In New York. I think he’s been in my apartment.”

“What makes you say that?” She heard her mom’s skepticism.

“Because someone broke in and went through my stuff.”

“Is anything missing?”

Nat couldn’t tell her mom the truth. Allana would think her daughter was delusional. And maybe Nat was? So she lied. “My laptop’s gone.”