“Where’s Joe?”

“He’s off this week. Family vacation, I think.”

This was definitely not a good sign. Damn it.

I took a deep, calming breath like Dr. Dunn said, and tried to center myself.

Was it really so terrible that my usual driver wasn’t here today?

No, no it wasn’t. I was just reading too much into everything like I always did.

It’s not like I would turn around and go back inside because Joe wasn’t there. Because there was a slight change to the same routine I’d kept up for months now.

I’d be lying to myself if I said I’d just go home. I was already at the car. I’d never turn back. There’s no way I could last another month without, well, whatever this was.

“You ready, ma’am?”

“Y-yes.” I hated the way my voice trembled, but if the new driver noticed, he didn’t show it.

I climbed into the back seat carefully, making sure I didn’t wrinkle my black satin dress. It was slippery on the leather upholstered seats. I balanced stiffly, legs wedged into the synthetic carpet that somehow still had that new car smell, until I buckled my seat belt.

The new driver got in and we pulled out. He turned the air-conditioning up all the way, and I shivered, though of course he didn’t notice.

I miss Joe. I know it’s silly to miss the limousine driver who picked me up once a month, but it was nice to start off the night with a kind face. And he never adjusted the air-conditioning without asking me. I thought about asking the new driver to turn it down, but I rubbed my arms instead. It felt awkward to ask. I’ll tell him if I really start to freeze.

It took about forty minutes to reach the Winchester if LA traffic behaved itself, which it did tonight. Thank goodness.

I stared out the window for a while. The buildings looked like sleek, slippery giants as we cruised by, their windows a million eyes that saw everything. I shuddered, pulling out my phone instead.

I usually don’t check my phone when I do this. The whole point is to switch out of my normal life and into, well, into something, or someone, else. But I had seen the time on the little digital clock that glinted at the back of this limousine—8:41 p.m., and it annoyed me a little. This wasn’t a good number at all. No patterns. No repeats. No signs from the universe to let me know that things were going my way.

I sighed to myself. Of course all of this was bullshit. Of course this weird obsession I have with the time doesn’t mean anything. But I knew that distracting myself was the best option right now.

Opening Instagram and scrolling through was a muscle memory. My fingers had found their way there before my brain even registered what it was doing. And I always ended up on her posts.

Her most recent one was from just a few minutes ago. It was still early morning in Colombo, where she lived. Where I used to call home. The post was of her leaning in close to the camera, her finger held to her perfect, full, pink-painted lips like she was asking me to shush.