“It’s nine-fifty a month plus utilities.” She studied me through unblinking eyes, attempting to assess whether I could afford her price. I must have passed the test, because at last she shrugged and said, “If you want it, you better be quick.”

It was the fourth apartment I’d seen today, each more abysmal than the last and all at least forty minutes from work. Rentals in A-Bay, near the State Police station, were rare. This, too, was on account of the season. When I called McIntyre to get her opinion on the slim pickings in Evans Mills, Black River, La Fargeville, she assured me there’d be more on the market come spring. All I could think was too little, too late.

Rooming with Mac felt surprisingly natural, and I believed her when she said she’d love for me to stay, but at our age the arrangement couldn’t be anything but temporary. There would come a day when the sheriff—a perpetual bachelorette married to her job, but smart and attractive—might realize the new guy in the County Clerk’s office was worth a second look. As for me, I might meet someone at the Riverboat Pub and decide to bring him home. It could happen. Post-Carson, the idea of investing any amount of time in a romantic relationship was unthinkable, but seeing Tim with Kelsea made me realize I’d want that again someday. The morning-after breakfast with tousled hair and awkward glances. The lust that preceded it. The trust. For all of that, I’d need a place of my own.

Feeling drained and defeated, I thanked the property manager and left in a hurry. Outside it was getting colder by the minute, and icy water seeped into my boots as I crossed the street to the used SUV I bought after the split. After locking the doors, I took out my phone. The only good thing about being on leave was the ample free time. I’d been using it to mend some fences.

There’s often a lot of self-blame associated with PTSD, and this was definitely true for me. I was freighted with guilt, both over my abduction and my inability to detain Bram when I’d had the chance. My Gil-guided journey to self-awareness had brought up other sources of residual remorse as well, and if I hoped to recover, I figured I should address them. With that in mind, I’d logged onto my long-dormant Facebook account and reconnected with Suzuka Weppler.

I met my former best friend through a sixth-grade activity I’d been roped into by my art teacher. Suze was new to the school, having moved up from D.C., so for her, the pressure to participate came from her parents. For three weekends and a half dozen after-school sessions, Suze and I worked with a few other students painting colorful murals on the hallway walls of Swanton’s combined middle and high school. Suze’s outlook on the project was similar to mine—anything to get out of team sports—and it didn’t take long for us to gel. Far as I know, our mural of Lake Champlain’s legendary sea monster is still right where we left it.