When the groceries are bagged and ready to go and the cashier tells me it will be ninety-seven dollars, I reach into my purse to grab my wallet and it isn’t anywhere. I’m calm for like five seconds because my stupid bag is huge and things get lost in there, but then I remember how everything ended up all over the bathroom floor at The Haunt and I start sweating. Like crazy sweating. Like I can’t get out of my coat fast enough and everyone is staring at me because instead of paying, I’m tearing my coat off in the middle of the store. And then I think about why everything ended up on the bathroom floor to begin with and I start crying. Big fat tears and my lip is shaking and it’s all so embarrassing I can’t even handle it.

“I’ll be back for it,” I say between sobs, looking at my hands, avoiding eye contact with the checker. “I’m so sorry. I’ll be back.” And I just walk out of the store.

I get in my car, shaking all over like I’m made of rubber bands. My wallet could have been lost in the bathroom. It might have skidded across the floor under one of the stalls, or to the far corner by the sink, under the radiator, or behind the garbage can. But I know that’s not what happened. I know where I have to go to get it back.

— Chapter 29 —

I pound on the door to Rosemary’s apartment hard with my fist and don’t stop even though my hands are freezing and every hit hurts. There’s a grey Saab in the driveway, and I’m sure it’s hers. I’m sure she’s home. I punch at the door like maybe I’ll just break it down. She still doesn’t answer. I start kicking.

When Rosemary finally answers the door, she sighs hard like this is boring for her, but I see the tremble in her cheek.

“Give back my wallet,” I say.

“Wait here.” She’s wearing a huge grey sweater and goldenrod-colored tights that make her knees look like doorknobs.

I follow her into the kitchen. There are dead roses in a coffee mug on the counter. Dishes piled high in the sink. Carly must have been the one who cleaned.

“I didn’t invite you in,” Rosemary says.

“I didn’t give you my wallet as a present.”

Her hands shake as she grabs the wallet off the counter. I snatch it from her and count my money.

“Oh, it’s all there,” she says. “I don’t need your tip jar change.”

I turn to leave and I’m almost to the door when she says, “There is one thing. I mean, I’m curious. What’s a child doing running around with a college student? There are laws about that.”