Whitney nodded as they entered the apartment. It was startling how much it smelled like Amelia. It was natural to grow accustomed to scents. They became like white noise, something she didn’t even think about. But today, they jumped out at her. Grabbed her by the throat and squeezed. Amelia’s peppermint lotion. Her vanilla shampoo. The floral hand soap Whitney had put in her bathroom. They all came at her in a rush, weighty and strong, a forceful wave. She had to choke back the emotions they carried with them, like algae sticking to her skin long after the wave receded. As Whitney walked farther inside, she struggled to catch her breath.

“Okay, you sit down and call the police. I’ll just make myself useful.” Natalie went directly to straightening things, picking up.

“My mom is like you,” Whitney mused, watching her friend. “She’s like this strong, take-charge kind of person. I’ve never been like that. Maybe that’s part of the problem.”

Natalie paused, eyeing her. “Part of what problem?”

“Why this happened.” She was speaking but it almost felt like the words were coming from someone else. Somewhere outside of her body. “Like if I’d been a stronger mom, a wiser mom, Amelia would still be here.”

“Whitney, stop,” Natalie said firmly. “You’re a good mom and this isn’t your fault.”

“But—”

“No.” Natalie shook her head. “Thinking like this is futile, and you know it.”

“Now you really sound like my mom.” Whitney smiled, and in that moment, she wondered if that was what had drawn her to Natalie in the first place. She was the version of her mom Whitney had longed for. A take-charge, no-nonsense woman who was also there for her. She was the best of both worlds.

She acquiesced. “Okay, fine. I’ll sit.” Sinking down into the couch, she got out her cell phone, deciding to try Amelia before calling McAvoy. Still not answering, and still nothing on Find My Friends.

We’ll ping her phone every forty-five minutes.

Whitney reminded herself that if it got turned back on, the police would be notified. Silently, she prayed that it would be soon.

There was a text from Dan asking for an update.

Nothing new, Whitney typed.

Picking up the card McAvoy gave her, she dialed his number and pressed the phone to her ear.

When he answered she told him about the poem, about her suspicions that this might be Michael.

He thanked her and then hung up, his voice giving nothing away. Frustrated, she lowered her phone to the couch cushion near her thigh. This was exactly why she’d gone down to apartment 204 in the first place. As much as she wanted the police to be right, she worried that they might not be. And if they were wrong, what then? If they were fixated on the fact that Amelia ran away were they even taking this very seriously?