“The loggers cut the lines. I think they’re drunk more than not. The way they drive these roads you’ll want to watch for them. And keep everything locked up too, at night. A woman on her own, I mean….” His voice trails and dips as if he’s just heard himself cross an invisible line into the realm of the personal.

“I’ll be all right.” Annoyance has crept into my voice.

Kirk coughs awkwardly. “Course you will.”

—

When he finally leaves, the cabin ticks with quiet. I unpack my few things and then step out onto the porch, into cool dusk, purple light. The spaces between the trees have contracted. I breathe in the stillness and for one precarious moment let myself think of the life I’ve just swung away from, not by choice, of Brendan and our messy kitchen, toys everywhere, baby tub upended in the sink. Our names side by side on the mailbox, like a talisman that had failed in its purpose. We had seven years together—not nearly enough—but he was right to say I haven’t been there for him. I haven’t.

Above me, I look for the moon in the ragged gaps in the canopy, but can’t find it. A screech owl sends up a trembling rhythm of hoots in the distance. From farther off a dog begins to yip, sounding plaintive. Or is it a coyote? The temperature has plunged. I shiver in my flannel shirt and jacket, wondering how cold it might get before morning, and whether the girl has a blanket or a fire wherever she is.

The girl.

I have no idea where the thought has come from, but immediately try to push it away. My whole world is still smoking behind me because of girls like Cameron Curtis. The missing and the damaged, their stories pulling at me like jagged little siren songs. For the last few years, I’ve been working for an initiative in the Bay Area called Project Searchlight, focusing on sex crimes and crimes against children, those abducted and murdered by strangers, or stolen and rendered powerless by their own family members, or targeted by pimps and monsters, sold and resold invisibly.

It’s the hardest work I’ve ever done, and also the most important, even if Brendan can’t ever forgive me. I’m good at it, too. Over time, I’ve developed a kind of radar for victims, and Cameron Curtis is deeply familiar, almost as if a neon sign flashes over her head, telegraphing her story, her vulnerability. And not just to me. However the sign has gotten there, I know predators can see it too, luridly bright and unmistakable.