Before long, fatigue steals up behind me and strikes. My throat is scratchy when I wake, my body achy all over. A dreamless, heavy nap leaves me feeling more exhausted than when I lay down. It shouldn’t come as a surprise, but the review of what meager meals I’ve eaten, and the stress, the grief, leaves me feeling bitter—angry—that this is my constant.

I open my laptop and log in to my email inbox. The emails Angela originally sent me are all there—confirming she never hit “Send” on updates one through eighteen. Several advertisements for cheap plane tickets and discounted surfing classes appear as new mail, along with a chain letter from my auntie Meredith. Her note above the chain message wonders how I’m doing; what plans did I have for my upcoming birthday? I haven’t heard from her since February, when she asked for a loan she insisted my father would have given her, and our birthday is in late September; I shake my head. The communication is a reminder no one from home knows I’m here.

The whiteboard’s message—ALIVE. TRUST NO ONE—remains stark in black marker. The black dots and even planes that so confused Seb add an air of alien hieroglyphics, even to my practiced eyes. I haven’t touched it once, for fear of ruining evidence and somehow losing the one link I feel confident relates to my search.

My heart drops into my stomach, tightening my belly until I could mistake the pain for menstrual cramps. Anguish leaves a chalky taste in my mouth. An empty wine bottle—Seb’s? Angela’s?—rests in the corner of the kitchenette. It is old, long exposed to the air and elements at this point, but I cross to the kitchen and lick the top lip of the bottle. The alcohol hits my tongue, spreading like a fire across it. I search every cabinet of Angela’s for liquor but come up empty. Disgust and desire alternate, flooding my core.

I sit down on the mattress again. Angela’s list on the back of the Danse La Nuit flyer juts from the flap of my bag. How much longer can I stay here? How much longer should I?

Knock knock.

My eyes fly to the door. A noise comes from the other side, followed by swearing. Someone is trying to get in.

I grapple for the Taser that I shoved under the pillow and watch as the lock rotates back. The door cracks open. I scan the room for a hiding place, anywhere to duck into, but the floorboards will creak and give away my position if I try. I sit frozen as the door inches backward, the bed frame, chest of drawers, and writing desk moving at a glacial pace. A hand slides in, then flicks the light switch in the afternoon shadows. Dark hair violates the space.