I wait for Jamal to share more, but when he says, I’m out! he usually means it. I delete the texts. As much as I want to take Jamal’s warning, I also want him home. Free.

Quincy said Jamal wouldn’t run too far from home. Maybe he’s near here, but that feels too dangerous.

I gulp down my fear of involving the police and text Beverly, asking if the crime scene at the Pike is cleared. Pretending I haven’t already searched it.

That’s when I hear voices in the distance.

DON’T FREEZE

Alarm bells sound in my head. My stomach drops. I turn and see the tall grass flicking back and forth. The same motion the grass made when I waded through and found the crime scene path to the building. Someone’s coming.

There’s more rustling, getting closer. I realize I’m caught totally out in the open. The panic rumbling inside me climbs up my throat while I hold back a scream.

The warehouse is dim, except where the sun shines through the layers of dust on windows. I step back, scanning the space for a place to hide. There’s a small opening between the wall and the warehouse conveyer belt.

I push through the narrow gap.

My fingers going numb, I try to ignore the icy grip of fear. It will only paralyze me.

Desperate for safety, I scramble farther into the shadows, even though the space gets tighter and tighter.

I take quick breaths in, trying to make myself small, hoping this hulking contraption will be enough to hide me. I hold back a cough from sucking in old dirt and heat trapped inside the building. The dreadful smell of must suffocates my lungs and tickles the back of my throat.

The door opens, broad daylight streaming in. I lower myself, stretching out to fit under a piece of metal. My fingertips reach for anything to pull on to tuck my body beneath the machinery.

Still, my eyes strain. I’m desperate to catch sight of whoever is here. Peering through a gap, I can barely make out two men walking inside, coming closer.

I’m torn, afraid if I see them, they’ll see me.

I spot something.

On the ground, near the gap I’ve shoved myself through, is a cell phone.

The men turn around and walk toward the door, their mumbled voices talking about “a waste of time” and “what are we looking for?”

They finally leave. I breathe a sigh of relief and wait it out a few more minutes before crawling toward the gap, closer to the phone.

The phone looks like it had been flung on the ground, dropped in a rush. Hearts cover the case.

Angela’s phone.