I zoom in on my own face and feel my heart plunge as I realize that girl sure looks a great deal like she’s in love with that guy too.

I turn off the phone screen, feeling an overwhelming urge to go find Cillian and rope him into helping me solve my mystery.

No, that would be psycho.

I yawn deeply and collapse backward on the couch. It really is as soft as a cloud and I feel suddenly heavy under the drawing curtain of fatigue—the kind of tired that you know will take you away to the restful, dreamy land of unconsciousness the second your head hits the pillow, if not a few seconds before.

I squeeze my eyes shut and then force them wide open. I can’t fall asleep right now.

I’ve always had a bad habit of falling asleep in places that aren’t a bed. I’ve done it since I was a kid. My parents will laugh to this day about how I’d fall asleep in my high chair or in a sandbox with other toddlers. One notable time, I fell asleep while getting a haircut. There’s a picture of my dad and me, me snoozing away in my little haircutting cape.

Except in a car. I’m usually never more awake than in a car.

When I was a kid and fell asleep, it was because I was ultra-relaxed, or as my mom says, always ready to travel to dreamland.

Now when I do it, on the couch or on a lawn chair, it’s not because I’m relaxed; it’s because I’m constantly operating on about four hours of sleep and living under the demanding undertakings of trying to be charming and actorly and not-anxious.

Right now, I’m jet-lagged and I’ve barely slept in over twenty-four hours.

My eyes drift shut as I scroll through more of the favorite photos. I literally cannot keep my eyelids open, but I keep trying. Who can sleep when their world is splitting in two? I roll over and try to open my eyes again, one last time, and they focus briefly on a picture on the wall beside the couch.

Sleep takes over, and I don’t get a chance to think it’s odd that there’s a picture—a recent-looking one—of me, Kiera, and Aimee.

Aimee, who has been dead for eleven years.

CHAPTER FOUR

I wake up the next morning to the sound of birds tweeting outside.

How sarcastically idyllic.

At some point in the night, Maureen had curled up at the end of the couch by my feet.

She rouses when I do, stretching her paws out in front of her with a tremble.

For a moment, nothing feels weird. It isn’t surprising that I am where I am. Then I remember that everything is weird.

First things first.