Our courtyard sits like a princess-cut jewel when I return, square and dazzling in the dying light, color bouncing off of every stone. It is the first time I look on it as home. Something in my chest swells like a balloon, like pride, like recognition. Daniel and I get out together at the curb. He wants to see me inside before he leaves, make sure I’m safe since we don’t know if my mom has returned. We walk through the gate hand in hand.

“I wondered when you were coming back.”

I look up to see Butcher stubbing out a cigarette on the edge of the fountain. “Sorry?”

His face is long, and his brows crinkle over his eyes like wiggling caterpillars. “Your mom was here,” he says.

I look at Daniel, drop his hand, and step forward. “You spoke to her?”

“Nah,” Butcher says. “I saw her go upstairs. Thought maybe she was turning in for the night.” He digs his hands into his pockets. “I noticed she’d been away.”

He says this last part gingerly, as if he is trying to spare my feelings with the truth. But his eyes tell me he understands much more than he is saying.

“She left maybe a half hour later,” he adds. “I thought you should know.” He inclines his head toward me with a look that indicates this is important information.

“When?” I ask now.

“About an hour ago,” he tells me.

I give him a nod. “Thank you.”

I rush upstairs, taking the steps two at a time with Daniel on my heels. When I open our apartment door, I don’t know what to expect. But everything seems the same. I flip on the lights and set Moony’s ashes down. I slide my hand under the pillow and drag out her watch for comfort, but the tick tick tick of its mechanical heart has stopped. The little hands are frozen in their places. I shake it and get no response. I can’t ignore the feeling that I am too late.

Setting it back down, I begin to move slowly around the room, looking for anything that I might be missing. Did she leave something behind that might signal her whereabouts or state of mind?

“Cat?” Daniel asks. “Everything okay?”

I trace a finger over her card table, where she often sat to give readings, where I left the torn up pieces of my note for her. They lie right where I put them. I turn to face him. “Something feels off,” I tell him. “I can’t explain it. Don’t ask me to try.”

He holds his hands up. “I trust you. A needle, remember? Sounds like you’re getting one now.”