I felt like a hamster in a cage, and outside someone might have been observing me, seeing how I reacted to the bizarre events unfolding before me.

Was it Blake? Had he killed the woman, then sent me in? And was he now seeing how much he could screw with my life?

Immediately I thought about calling the police, but then how would I explain my presence? If I was worried about my involvement in the accident from college coming to light, how would it look if the police found me standing over the dead body of a female acquaintance?

I needed to get the hell out of this house.

But before I did, I walked over to the dresser, where the letters were supposed to be. Had someone else come into the house for the same reason I had? If the dresser was open, the drawers emptied and searched, could it be we were after the same thing?

I peered into the top drawer, where Blake had told me the letters would be. It was nearly empty. Only a hairbrush and a wadded-up pink tank top remained inside. Everything else was spilled on the floor. I checked the other drawers as well, but it was the same thing every time. Empty or almost empty. No letters. No personal effects. No notes or diaries. Almost nothing.

I looked around the room, the debris scattered at my feet and over Jennifer’s body. It was too much of a mess to sort through. And I felt no desire to paw around Jennifer’s clothes, knowing her dead body lay beneath them.

I asked myself if the killer had used the clothes to intentionally cover her body so he wouldn’t have to see her. Or had the scattering of the clothes been an accident?

My thoughts were cut off by a distant sound. At first, I thought I’d imagined it. Maybe Sparkle had started to howl. Or maybe someone had triggered a car alarm.

I froze in place, listening more intently, my head cocked. Another moment passed, and then I heard it again.

A siren.

A distant siren growing closer.

It could have been something besides a response to Jennifer’s death.

Her murder.

Maybe someone had left their oven on. Maybe an elderly person had suffered a heart attack or a fall.

But could I risk it? Someone had sent me that friend request, almost as though they were watching me. If I was being set up, then wouldn’t it make sense for someone to call the police as well so they could catch me inside the house?

I took a step to go, my foot brushing against the side of Jennifer’s body. I pulled my leg back and stopped. A human being lay there at my feet, someone about my age. Hours before I’d come into the house, she’d been as alive as I was. Breathing, thinking, dreaming. And now . . .