And from that moment on, the next few days and nights had unwound in an uneven, macabre way, first with my father grilling me for answers, then with the calls to Jo-Jo, Kurt, and finally the cops. Then came the uniformed officer who accepted my nonanswers with growing frustration. I’d still thought Clare would show, and I didn’t need Brit knowing I’d been with Jack.

Even after the first two days, I’d foolishly expected Clare to walk through the front door, hungover, exhausted, explaining she’d gone on a short trip, and slightly chagrined that so much fuss had been made. I didn’t know then that when someone went missing, the first hour was critical. Cops called it the Golden Hour. As time ticked, the chances of rescue diminished, and the operation turned from rescue to recovery.

On the fourth morning, Detective Richards had arrived. He’d never shouted, never raised his voice. And after he told us his grim news, I’d been more fearful than ever to tell anyone what I’d been doing. I’d stuck to my story and told him I’d been on a long drive. I repeated the tale so many times, it felt like the truth.

An opening door pulled my attention forward. A woman came out of the front door of Jo-Jo’s old house. She was dressed in jeans, a cable-knit sweater, and white athletic shoes. She must have been watching me through the window, because the more I lingered, the deeper her frown. I’d no idea how long I’d been sitting here, but I knew I’d outstayed my welcome.

When she raised her phone to her ear, I put the car in drive and drove to Forest Hill Avenue, the main artery in the area, took a left, and headed toward the city, winding past businesses and homes toward my apartment.

After I angled my car into the parking space that I’d still been paying for, I hoisted my gear and rose out of the car. My bones ached, and tight back muscles reminded me I was still recovering. After the car accident, I’d had to cancel several bookings. Brit had jumped in, as she did, and found other photographers to pick up the jobs. The lost revenue stung but wasn’t crippling. (Thank you again, trust fund.) I’d spent that first week after the accident on Brit’s couch, sleeping and often waking with dreams of Clare running through the woods as someone chased her.

Brit had hovered over me. Made sure I had what I needed, including clean clothes and a new phone. When it occurred to me that I was relying on her too much, I’d Ubered back to my apartment.