At the corner of Main and Lincoln, Sam’s old street, she stopped at another light. In front of the movie theater, a couple argued. Opposite the theater, a few girls laughed their way out of The Mason Jar. Two guys, wearing short sleeves despite the evening chill, crossed the street, the shorter of them calling toward the giggling girls, “Time for McGregor’s?” Both men’s gazes veered Maggie’s way when they passed the front of the truck. She pretended she didn’t notice.

Rolling up her window, she had the grim thought, Everyone here … hunters or prey. Then she gave her head a toss and flexed her hands against the wheel, distractedly noting her body’s rigidness, the dampness of her skin. When the light turned green, she waited for a car to pass, then turned left and took a deep breath. Just find Linnie.

House lights brightened Lincoln Street. People were outside, but there was no traffic, so Maggie was able to investigate at a snail’s pace. She leaned forward to peer at the duplexes and small apartment buildings (shabby places, student housing probably) and looked for Linnie’s blond hair and full figure. When her search caught pedestrians’ attention, they stared back, annoyed or pleased, depending—well, depending on a lot of things.

At the end of the street, she pulled the truck into a crumbling driveway to turn around and scan the other side of the road. No one looked like Linnie. With a sting of unease, she slowed when she passed the dark-windowed place Sam and Linnie used to rent and then rolled her shoulders to try to unknot them.

Near the movie theater, she turned around and repeated the search, all the way to the block’s end. One house there was a possibility. She parked to consider it.

Lights shone in the smudged windows. No curtains concealed the inside, and people appeared in passing. On the front porch, a few more drank and smoked, leaning against the posts and railings.

She got out of the pickup, shut the door, and stuffed Sam’s keys into her cardigan pocket. Her phone was in there, too, and her mind grazed the matter of Jane Cannon before settling on the situation ahead of her, the house of strangers.

It’s just a party. Jesus, Maggie. It’s supposed to be fun. Sara Wood’s words. Maggie stumbled on the sidewalk.

Approaching the porch, she blotted her forehead with her arm. She felt … muddled. As if conch shells were pressed to her ears, muting other sounds with their waves. As if she’d fallen into those waves. Her hand trembled. She wrapped it around Sam’s keys.

The people on the porch eyed her with unmasked curiosity.

She focused on the person closest to the door, a woman with dark hair in a high ponytail and a hand clutching her coat at the throat.