“Let’s dance some more,” I say, grabbing his hand, and we dive back into the crowd just as a new song begins.

A few minutes later, I start to feel it—the familiar sensation of an overly full bladder.

“I have to pee,” I tell Julian, and he grins, leading me off the dance floor again. We walk together to the back of the club, and I get in line to the girls’ bathroom while Julian leans against the wall, watching as I wait my turn in the shadowed, circular hallway leading to the restrooms. I wonder if he’s guarding me even here and almost snicker at the idea of him being worried enough to accompany me to the ladies’ room.

Thankfully, he doesn’t. Instead, he stays by the entrance to the narrow hallway, his arms crossed over his chest.

The line is long, and it takes almost fifteen minutes to get to my destination. When my turn finally comes, I step into the small three-stall room and do my business. It’s only when I’m washing my hands that it occurs to me that Rosa disappeared in this direction, and I haven’t seen her come out since.

Pulling out my phone from my tiny purse, I text Julian: Did Rosa walk by you? Do you see her anywhere?

There’s no immediate answer, so I step out of the bathroom, about to head back, when a flash of something red a dozen feet away catches my attention. Frowning, I walk deeper into the circular hallway, past the restrooms, and then I see it.

A red, high-heeled shoe lying discarded on the floor.

My heart skips a beat.

Bending down, I pick it up, and a chill skitters down my spine.

There’s no doubt now. It’s Rosa’s shoe.

My pulse speeding up, I straighten, looking around, but I don’t see her anywhere. With the way the hallway curves, even the bathroom line is out of sight now.

Dropping the shoe, I pull out my phone again. There is a text from Julian in response to mine: No, I don’t see her.

I begin to type out a reply, but at that moment, a door I hadn’t noticed before swings open a few feet away.

A short, skinny guy steps out, closing the door behind him, and leans against the door frame.

A young guy, I realize, looking at him. More like a boy in his teens, his pale, freckled face unmarred by the slightest hint of stubble. His posture is casual, almost lazy, but something about the way he glances at me gives me pause.

“Excuse me.” I approach him carefully, wrinkling my nose at the strong smell of alcohol and cigarettes coming off him. “Have you seen my friend? She’s wearing a yellow dress—”

He spits on the floor in front of me. “Get the fuck outta here, bitch.”

I’m so startled I step back. Then anger blasts through me, mixing with adrenaline. “Excuse me?” My hands curl into fists. “What did you just call me?”