I texted Leo to tell him what was going on, but he didn’t reply either; I assumed he had fallen asleep. And then I thought maybe June had just fallen asleep, too, as some last-ditch effort at optimism, but I knew almost for certain that that wouldn’t be true. She saw my texts. She saw my calls. And she wasn’t responding – but why?

I didn’t know what to do. What was I supposed to do?

The swarm of fears grew and pulsated, completely untameable; if they could just stop, stand up straight, I could get a good look at them, but the only thing that made any sense was the thing maybe I should have known from the beginning, that June and Dad …

June. Dad.

In a gut-punch, I knew what I’d been facing this entire time but had refused to really see: that this was all the same thing. The mysteries weren’t separate entities at all. They’d been the same this whole time, this incestuous amalgam of all my monsters, a rubber band ball but instead of rubber bands, they were limbs and flesh and hair, and all of it could be traced back to either Dad or June. Why hadn’t I seen?

I looked outside and in the small hours the world looked sinister, like it was dark out and it’d never be light again.

I even contemplated waking up Mom, but what would she do? Chastise me for looking for the folder at all, probably. She wouldn’t understand. Even if she did, what would she do? There was nothing to do until June decided there was. This was all up to her now. Before, I’d felt a sick sort of pleasure at relinquishing the control of my entire existence to her but now the thought enraged me.

I floated uselessly around in a half-dazed state through the night and into early morning, mind ticking, spinning – until my phone rang at 3:42.

June. It was June.

I answered, hands shaking, and I needed to get the words out, I needed to –

‘June, I don’t know what’s going on but God, I really –’

‘I can’t see you any more.’ She blurted it out so loudly, so fast, that I thought she might have been saying it over and over to herself before she called. Like the words didn’t actually mean anything. Like she didn’t understand what that actually meant. ‘I can’t see you. We can’t talk. We can’t be friends. Whatever. Anything. Nothing.’

She didn’t mean that. She couldn’t. ‘June. OK. Slow – slow down …’

‘I’m sorry. That’s all I had to say.’