I woke up in my own bed, clinging to every memory of last night as if they might vanish at any moment. The good, the bad. All of it. I hid my face in my pillow as I remembered the way Donovan had looked at my body, the way he'd touched me. Then, my underwear in Ciar's trunk. His face as I flung them at him.

And my answer to Donovan's question: Tell me what you're feeling.

Humiliated. I hate you.

But I remembered it all, and I didn't want to forget.

Would you let me try to change your mind?

Had he changed my mind?

"No." I sat up as my own voice echoed in the empty room. The hair clip stared back at me from the bedside table, judging me. "No, of course not."

Throwing back the covers, I skittered to the kitchen. I was already reaching for the upside-down stack of gray-eyed, blond-haired women on the table before I realized it was gone.

They were gone.

Behind me, my bedroom door slammed, its force rattling the rest of the thin walls. A pot on the stove let out a faint, hollow pinging sound.

Not again. My heart leapt into my throat. A sane person would have run outside screaming, hoping the FBI was staking out the end of the driveway.

But if the FBI was watching, what were the chances someone had actually made it inside?

I swallowed and took one step toward the bedroom. Then another, and another. I leapt the last few feet, seizing the knob and throwing the door open like the leader of a SWAT team.

Nothing. Just the window that I'd opened last night, its curtains fluttering harmlessly on either side and the screen still on the floor beside it, waiting for me to put it back.

I almost folded my legs and sat down right there in the doorway. There was always nothing. Behind every door, at the end of every relationship I tried to keep. Nothing. Just a void to match the one in my soul, the one that Tilda helped me fill.

I'd been so happy that she hadn't last night, but who was I kidding? I needed her.

Robotically, I picked up my phone. My fingers knew Mark's number, no matter how many times I willed them to forget it. No matter how many times I deleted it from my contacts, they always found a way to sneak it back in. And they snuck it onto my dial pad now, even though I already knew what I'd hear on the other end.

Four dial tones, and then nothing.

Nothing.

Then, a soft tap.

I grabbed the phone with both hands, holding onto it like a lifeline as I mashed it closer to my ear. "Hello?" I said, my voice echoing in the silence.

No answer. "Hello!" I shouted, not caring that the volume scraped hoarsely against my throat.

Another soft tap. "Maisye?"

I pulled the phone away from my head and stared at the screen. The call had already disconnected, but the muffled taps had turned into full-on raps.

"Maisye, open up!"

My shoulders sagged, and I let myself stand there for a moment, pretending I hadn't just mistaken Clarissa at my door for my ex finally picking up the phone.

When she started banging again, I sighed and plastered on my most stoic facade, completely forgetting until I'd opened the door that I probably had horrible bedhead.

She just gave me a cursory once-over with that all-consuming gaze. "I believe you have something for me."

I nodded, retreated to the bedroom, and returned with the hair clip. Before I held it out, though, I bit my lip.

"Did you get anything?"

She held out her hand. "I'll know when I look at the data."

"What does it pick up?" I asked, so quietly that she shouldn't have been able to hear me. "Like...sounds? Video?"

Please not video. The last thing I needed was to hand Clarissa a shot of Donovan's face as he...

Nope. Not going there.

Too late. My face was already hotter than the sun, but Clarissa chose to ignore it.

"Just data. Calls, network activity. Things like that."

I tried not to look too relieved as I finally dropped the clip in her hand. She closed her fingers around it, then tilted her head.

"Are you okay, Maisye?"

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Did she know how messed up I was? Or was she just asking about my crimson face?

I nodded.

"Are you sure? I know this is hard for you. I can arrange someone for you to talk to if you need—"

"No," I said immediately. "It's fine. I'm fine."

The night I'd fallen apart sobbing in her arms passed between us, a perfect example of why I was not fine.

"Okay." She slipped the hair clip in her pocket. "If you're sure."

There it was. One last chance to change my mind. Tell the truth.

I couldn't get sent home. Not yet. Not without succeeding.

With a single nod, Clarissa turned on her heel. I had half a second to wish I'd taken it back, because maybe then she'd hold me again, become human like she had a few nights ago and be the support I needed her to be. But before I could say anything, someone else knocked at the door.

We both froze. Clarissa's muscles tensed, like she was deciding whether to run and hide in a closet or something.

"Maisye Haywood?" a man's voice came muffled through the door.

Not Donovan. Not Ciar. I stepped slowly past Clarissa to open the door, and a man in a navy uniform greeted me with a stiff nod on the other side.

"Are you Miss Haywood?"

I nodded.

He stuck out his hand. "I'm Officer Lansing from the Boston P.D., can I come inside?"

No.

The doorknob turned to ice as my grip on it tightened. The air thinned until I couldn't breathe, leaving me dizzy as the color drained from my face.

Not again.

All I heard was Erica from the Boston Police Department, calling to bring my world down around me.

"Who is it?" I whispered. "Who is it this time?"

"I'd just like to ask you a few questions, ma'am."

Clarissa stepped forward, grabbing the door and opening it wider so that she could see. "What's going on here?"

He looked down his nose at her. "And who are you?"

From the corner of my eye, I saw her hand twitch toward her pocket, but she simply raised her chin. "A friend."

"Well, I need to ask your friend some questions," he said. "Alone, if you don't mind."

She shot me a questioning glance, and I sent one back that said Please, don't leave. Not again.

She clasped my shoulder on the way by and hissed, "Call me" in my ear, and then she was gone.

"Can I come in?" Officer Lansing of the Boston P.D. asked.

I nodded numbly, moving aside to let him enter. Everything felt far away—like even if I reached for something right in front of me, my fingers would simply swish through thin air. The click of the door echoed hollowly as though from the end of a long tunnel.

"Shall we sit?" the officer asked, doing so without waiting for an answer.

I plopped into the seat across the table and blurted, "Who's dead?"

His eyes narrowed. "What makes you ask that?"

"I—my sister..." I had to pause to take a steadying breath, and even then my voice remained shaky. "The last time someone from Boston P.D. talked to me, she was dead."

Officer Lansing stared at me for too long, and the world telescoped out of focus as he laid a photo on the table. "Do you know this man?"

Donovan? Ciar? Mark?

No, it couldn't be Mark. He was in California, not even answering my calls.

Just look at the picture. Get it over with.

"Maisye, do you know this man?"

I peeked down at the table. Crooked teeth bared, the man Ciar had called Nero glared up at me from a mugshot.

My breath whooshed out of my lungs like I'd been kicked in the stomach. I shook my head.

"Are you sure?"

"Why would I know him?" I asked a bit too sharply.

He tilted his head, its shiny dome catching the sunlight starting to pour through the window. "You were arrested a few nights ago while street racing with your boyfriend."

I sat straight up. "He's not my—!"

"This man," Lansing said loudly, jabbing a finger at the picture, "was the leader of a well-known street racing ring, so it's reasonable to assume you know him."

I frowned across the table at him. "Ciar Cosgrave isn't my boyfriend."

He stared, blinking at unnaturally long intervals until I finally caved.

"I only met him once." I lifted the photo off the table, studying Nero's beady eyes, and then looked up. "Wait. You said was. Is he really dead?"

"His body washed up two days ago on the banks of the Mystic. Stabbed." He watched me closely, as if looking for a giveaway that I already knew. "We're trying to figure out how long he sat there. Nobody's seen him since the night you did."

The Mystic. That damn river. I started to shrug. "Well, I wish I could help, but I—"

"Not so fast." The officer raised a hand. "I still think you can. Let's talk about this Ciar Cosgrave who's not your boyfriend."

"What does he have to do with this?"

"That's what I'm wondering." He leaned forward, the table creaking under the weight of his elbows. "Was he friends with this man?"

"I don't think so," I said cautiously. Where was this going? Surely not where I thought it was?

"Do you think he's sad this guy's dead?"

"I..." My mouth fell open uselessly as I remembered what I'd told Clarissa when she'd asked about Ciar and Tilda. I think he's glad she's dead.

What if he'd done this? Killed Nero? And what if he'd killed Tilda, too?

"I don't know," I whispered.

And that was the god's-honest truth.

Officer Lansing must have seen it, because with a groan of protest from his chair, he stood. "Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Haywood."

That's it?

I followed him silently to the door and stood on the front porch, watching as he got into the squad car parked behind mine and backed down the driveway. When the taillights had disappeared at the end of the street, I made my way down the front steps, my bare feet slapping the wood until I stood aimlessly on the burning asphalt below.

Ciar killed somebody.

No. I didn't know that. I had no proof.

But you've thought it before. Why not now?

Because...I searched the depths of my brain, but came up empty.

Call me, Clarissa had said. I glanced back at the house, where my phone sat on the counter. Then I cut my eyes to my car.

I scampered back upstairs, grabbed my keys out of the bowl beside the breadbox, and locked the door on the way out. The rough welcome mat pricked the soles of my feet, and rather than go back inside, I crammed them into the muddy pair of sneakers that still sat beside the door.

Half running, half limping as the backs of the sneakers dug into my heels, I lurched toward the car, threw the door open, and started it up.

Nothing compared to the glimpse I got of Clarissa's face behind the windshield of her SUV as I hurtled out of my driveway in reverse and then sped off down the street.