Dusk shrouds my room when I wake up. A ringing echoes in my ears, though the room is silent. My hand groggily grabs at my bedding, pulling at fabric until it finds the hard shell of my phone case. Fingers tightening, I raise the screen over my head and press the power button.

Five in the morning.

I let my hand fall down, and the impact loosens my finger's grasp. I hear a muted thump on the carpet. There goes my phone.

Rolling over, I turn my light on. My face feels swollen, the air cool after last night's tears. I swing my legs over the side, one foot on the ground, then the other. I lock into that stability, then leave my room. The moment I open the door, cinnamon and sugar fills my nose. The comforting scent warms me slightly, and I stumble down the stairs to the kitchen.

Mom sits at the table, face buried in her long, slender fingers and shoulder-length hair hanging an inch over the red tablecloth.

"Hi, Mom." My voice croaks out. Mom's head whips up, and a tired smile pulls her lips upward, but only slightly.

"Madelyn," she says. "You're up."

"Yeah." I slip into the seat beside her. The chair is too close to the table and presses on my stomach, but I don't bother adjusting it. My gaze follows the little, white swirls decorating the tablecloth. It's a familiar, mindless route of loops and dives.

"The cinnamon rolls won't be done for another ten minutes," Mom says. "But I have cookies, blueberry muffins, and sourdough."

That pulls my gaze to Mom's worried blue eyes. "I thought it needed another day."

"I decided to bake it early." Mom smiles. "Don't worry, I tried a piece a little while ago, and it's still delicious if I do say so myself."

A smile cracks my face, but it quickly dissipates. "It's always delicious." I glance back at the tablecloth. "Maybe sourdough, with that chive cream cheese? And then I'll have a cinnamon roll."

"Of course, sweetie." Mom hurries to the kitchen island where her buffet of baked goods are lined up. Minutes later, she places a plate of warm, toasted sourdough before me along with the cream cheese and a spoon. The steam from the bread softens the spread so it coats the toast in an even layer. I devour it in a few bites, savoring the sour tang.

"You don't have to go to school today," Mom says. She bends in front of the oven door, checking on the pastries.

"I... figured."

Her heels click across the floor. "Once you eat, perhaps we can discuss our plans for the day."

"How about now?"

Mom blinks at me. "Sure. Of course." She takes a sip of her coffee, then looks at me. "Coffee?"

I shake my head. "Probably not the best idea." Although I do love the taste, caffeine and anxiety do not mix well.

"Okay. Well, I'm afraid I still have work today." Mom's hand closes around mine. "I'll cancel all my appointments for this upcoming week, though."

"You don't have to do that."

"But I want to. I want to be here for you."

I swallow. "Does... do you know if Amber has any appointment openings today?"

"Not Saturdays," Mom says. "I already called. But she said that you can have an extra long session on Monday." The timer beeps, and she takes quick, even steps to open the oven. Heat floods the kitchen along with the smell of sweet, yeasted cinnamon. My mouth waters, and I grab a plate from the cabinet while Mom mixes milk and sugar into a glaze.

"Careful," Mom says as I dig a large spoon around one roll. "Don't burn yourself."

My fingers tighten around the spoon handle. Don't burn yourself.

What a horrible death that would be.

I swallow the bile creeping up my throat and dump the cinnamon roll onto my plate. Mom drizzles the white glaze on top. Thank goodness it isn't red because the viscous consistency reminds me an awful lot of...

My eyes squeeze shut. It's not blood, not even the right color.

Warmth lands on my upper arm. "Are you okay?" Mom asks.

No. I open my eyes, blinking the golden dough into focus.

"Looks delicious. Thank you." I slink to my seat and dig in before I can second guess what I'm eating.

It is delicious — buttery, sweet, spicy, and warm. The warmth is what I need. It helps thaw through the doubts that are paralyzing me. For a few minutes, I feel safe and secure.

Mom sets her own plate down at the place beside me, pulling her chair closer to mine. We eat in silence. I pull the swirl apart with my hands, and my fingers become sticky with sugar that I frequently lick off. It only makes them more sticky, like I'm a kid again.

A carefree kid. A free kid.

Not anymore.

"I'm here for you, Madelyn," Mom says at last. "Whatever support you need, I'm here for you."

I nod. I can't bring myself to meet her gaze, so I stare at the half-eaten swirl on my plate, the white droplets of goo.

Frosting, I correct myself.

"I can't even begin to fathom what's going through your head right now. It's never easy to view that kind of scene."

It's hard even for her, someone with experience.

Mom's hand squeezes mine. "I know this is hard for you. But, please know this is not your fault. It couldn't be."

Tears roll down my cheeks. I sink my teeth deeper into the cinnamon roll. Sticky sweetness coats my tongue against the bitter reality I'm desperately trying to suppress.

Oh, Mom. If only I could be sure you were right.

***

Amber's room always smells like lavender. A diffuser sits on a corner table, and little bubbles flurry upward behind the blue-tinted base. For some reason, whenever I'm stuck, that's what my gaze drifts to.

I mull over her question for another moment. What did it feel like: his life there, then no more?

"It was a horrible sensation," I say slowly. "I mean, it's sort of mundane, like feeling someone leave the room." Like his spirit leaving the room. I try to brush that thought aside and continue. "I-It wasn't terribly obtrusive. But the knowledge of what it is... it's too much."

Amber nods along. "The most disturbing aspect of these situations can often be our perceptions and thoughts that accompany them. What sorts of emotions have you been feeling the past few days?"

"A lot of anxiety, fear," I answer right away. I pause, biting my lip as I dissect the thoughts I've had recently. "And guilt. I think the guilt is what makes me most anxious."

"Why do you feel guilty?"

I swallow. Tears spring in my eyes, and my eyelids send one rolling down each cheek. "I'm... I'm afraid that it's my fault." Amber tilts her head to the side, though her expression stays the same, just mildly curious. "Because, you know, he died when I walked in. I'm... afraid that somehow... I caused it."

Amber's thin, sloped eyebrows furrow slightly. "How?"

"I was scared." A shaky breath fills my lungs. "And then I sensed someone in the room. And then he was no longer alive."

"Why don't you talk me through this?" Amber says. "I want to talk through this for a bit."

I take in a slow breath, then release it. "I guess I was just frightened when I entered. The auditorium was dark and cold and seemed to be empty. It was all just so eerie. And then I sensed someone nearby."

"What were your thoughts about the person you sensed?"

"I thought it was my date." I had already told her about the dating app, with the preface that I really, really didn't want Mom to know about it. Of course, Amber understood.

"Did you have any thoughts of self-defense?"

Slowly, I shake my head. "But if someone had jumped from the shadows or from behind one of the chairs, I don't know what I would've done."

"Yes, I don't either," Amber agrees. "Even I would've been scared in your shoes. The whole setup screams horror movie."

"Yeah. And it was. The next thing I knew, the sensation was gone. I thought my date had left, but I thought I'd walk down a little more. And then I saw him—" My voice breaks. "Hanging."

I grab another tissue, crying another batch of tears into it.

"Oh, Madelyn. I'm so sorry you're going through this," Amber's distant voice says.

The bout of tears takes several minutes to subside. When it does, I blow my nose one more time, toss yet another wad into the trash can.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

"Madelyn, you have nothing to be sorry for. You've done nothing wrong."

"But what if I did?" I wail. "No one else was around. How else could he have ended up there?"

Amber breathes, her eyes fixating on the table for a moment. "Are you concerned you blacked out? Or acted without realizing?"

My gaze drifts to my hands. "Yes," I whisper. "I am terrified." A beat passes as more formulates in my head. "I am terrified of what my hands — what I — am capable of, especially when I'm not paying attention. Especially when I'm scared."

The silence between us pulsates, magnified by the little sounds suddenly noticeable — the hum of the diffuser, the whir of the fan, the cushions as we both shift in our seats.

"This may not be helpful," Amber begins slowly, "but I wonder if knowing some of the details of the case might quell your concerns. I'm sure the police know the crime scene setup, what it would actually have taken for you to commit this crime. I'm not certain, but Evan might've died a long time before you got there." Amber pauses, eyes searching. "Do you think that would help?"

"Perhaps." My throat has gone dry. "I'll think about it."

"Again, you don't have to. But sometimes our fears can be quelled by information gathering. I don't want to lie to you or trick you, but I don't see how you could have killed anyone. And I think the police's investigation can prove that."

I nod. "You're probably right. I just need some time."

"Of course. Take all the time you need."

Except I can't. Deep down, I know this fear, no matter how irrational, will eat at me. Either something will relieve it, like Amber said, or it will consume me.