She knocked a few more times. Waited. Cool night air whipped around her. Cars buzzed in the distance. The apartment was quiet. No movement inside.

“Nobody’s here.” Whitney felt herself withering, crumpling like a deflated balloon. Like she might sink to the ground and never get back up.

“I’m sorry, Whit,” Natalie said. “Let’s go back upstairs and you can call the police and let them know what you found. Maybe they’ll have better luck tracking this boy down.”

Whitney peered up at the black night sky splattered with twinkly stars that reminded her of those little LED lights Amelia sometimes liked to string over her bed frame. “I just really wish she would’ve come home by now.”

“I know, honey.” Natalie’s hand rested on her arm. “I know.” Her pocket rang. Throwing Whitney an apologetic look she pulled out her cell and answered. “Hey, Bruce.” She turned away from Whitney, phone pressed to her ear. Whitney stared at the door to apartment 204.

I’m not like you, Mom.

Whitney was starting to think Amelia was more like her than she thought.

“Sorry about that.” Natalie joined her. “It was just Bruce checking in.”

“It’s okay,” Whitney said. “You know that if you need to leave, you can.”

Natalie shook her head. “No way. I’m not leaving you. Bruce is just gonna swing by and drop off some of my stuff.”

“Really, you don’t have to stay,” Whitney said, but her words were weak and unconvincing even to her own ears. She couldn’t imagine being alone all night. It was getting darker. Later. The dreamlike quality the day had had was clearing out like fog when the sun broke through. Stark reality stared her in the face, grotesque and scary. Her hope that Amelia would come home any minute, her tail between her legs and an apology on her lips, had completely vanished.

“Let’s go back upstairs.” Natalie’s hand landed on her back.

Whitney glanced one last time at apartment 204, a chill running through her.

“Come on,” Natalie pressed. “You can call McAvoy, or what was the other detective’s name?”

“Sandavol,” Whitney said as they bounded up the stairs.

“Right. Sandavol. Well, you can call one of them and tell them about the poem.”