I didn't sleep much in the few hours left before daylight, only stared at the ceiling and seethed. Why were men so complicated? One second Donovan was looking at me like I owned his world, and the next he was getting me caught on camera with my pants down. Ciar was like a revolving door: always some simultaneous combination of open and shut, but sometimes he'd lock up, and you never knew if it would happen while you were on the inside or the outside.

Tilda pressed closer to me than she had in a long time. The Cosgraves had messed her up. I was sure of that. Whatever she'd done—and she'd messed them up, too—I truly believed that whatever had happened to her was partially their fault.

Both of them. Not just Donovan, but Ciar too.

"What did they do to you?" I whispered.

She curled up against my ribcage and sighed.

I sat up. After what Ciar had told me, I couldn't trust myself to become her again.

Heaving myself out of bed, I padded out to the kitchen, opening the laptop that sat at the table. I logged in and paused, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. I could just call it quits here. Throw my hands up and run away and start somewhere new.

Why was I so intent on needing any of the people here? I could need someone else—a stranger maybe. Throw up a Tinder profile, find a woman because God knew I needed a break from men. I could need her.

I sighed at the screen. "That's not how it works."

One thing was right, though. I needed to get out of here. I had to find Clarissa whatever proof she needed so that I could go home.

And where exactly is home?

"Shut up," I mumbled, leaning over the computer as I started to type. I might not be a hacker, but I could use Google and I knew the disappearing women were already searchable to some degree.

It didn't take long to find the article I'd unearthed before, and I reread it. Not much; just a summary of Amanda, Crystal, and Monica's lives, along with a one-sentence call to investigate further. But it did mention a few family members.

I wrote down their names, but then I paused. How would I feel if someone called me up asking about Tilda months after she'd died? Hell, that was exactly what Clarissa had done, only years later. It still stung.

Maybe the families should be a last resort. No doubt the police had already spoken to them, and done what they could with the information.

As much as I hated to admit it, asking Ciar might be the best place to start. Surely he'd remember his brother's fling shortly after Tilda's death. And they both attended the same parties, so he might have seen Crystal. And of course, he'd fixed Monica's car.

He had to remember something, right?

He better, because no way was I talking to that asshole for nothing.

Sighing, I blew up the photos attached to the article and sent them to the printer upstairs. For good measure, I looked up Valerie Kunath under Donovan's Facebook friends and grabbed her profile picture, too.

I made my way up the stairs, listening to the two creaking steps as I passed over them. I remembered the way they'd squeaked while I was in the darkroom, the pounding footsteps racing away, the flash of blond in the mirror at the bottom.

I glanced at the darkroom. Donovan had snuck up on me in there once, and I'd asked him a question. Has it been you this whole time? He hadn't really answered.

What if Donovan was the one stalking me? What if he knew I was onto him?

He'd shown up at the cabin right after whoever had entered had run away. He was blond. That would explain the flashes of gold.

It would also explain how he'd gotten into my apartment that day, because, I realized suddenly, I'd never asked him that question.

Idiot, I cursed myself as I pulled the four photos out of the printer. I should've listened to Clarissa. I should've been on my toes around him.

I stepped into the darkroom, leaving the door open behind me, and contemplated something he'd said that day, about photography. It's the emotion behind it.

The mysterious photos of myself still hung from the twine across the ceiling, and I tried to see what the photographer had seen. If the woman in the photo wasn't me, what would I see?

It was just a meaningless moment, something insignificant to anyone but the person behind the camera. Maybe that was the point. She meant something to them, to him.

"Are you even me?" I murmured, reaching up to run a finger over the silky paper. That simple thought hit me like a load of bricks, and suddenly I couldn't be more certain who was behind the camera that night.

Donovan. It had to be. Photographing not me, but Tilda. This was just a passing second in their lives, a second that he never thought would come, until it had.

I had.

A sudden whine sent my heart careening out of control, and as I stepped back onto the landing outside, the printer in the neighboring room came to life.

My first instinct was to unplug it. Maybe I'd watched too many horror movies. Remove the possessed doll's batteries, problem solved, right? But as the image on the paper started to take shape, I froze. The four women's photos slipped from my hands as I bent over the printer, clutching the desk.

Blond hair, parted down the middle, peeked from under the tray. A few more seconds of whirring, and her eyes appeared.

Brown. Dark, dark brown, almost black. I straightened, hands trembling. I'd been so sure they would be gray.

But she wasn't alone on that sheet. As I watched, two more heads appeared, lined up perfectly in a row. One redhead, and one with pitch-black hair. And the next row down, two more, neither blond.

All of them looked so different that I might have written it off as an accident if I hadn't heard a door slam downstairs.

I scooped up the papers and rushed to the landing, listening again. Only the silence met my ears.

I pounded down the stairs, stuffing my feet into a pair of sneakers as I snatched my keys. There was no one in the driveway, but I knew I'd heard the front door slam. Whoever had been inside with me had to be somewhere.

Sprinting to the end of the driveway, I looked both ways up and down the street; nothing seemed out of place. A dog barked, but I'd probably bark too if my insane neighbor came flying down her driveway.

Across the street, the window of a black SUV rolled down, and Clarissa stuck her head out. "Maisye?" she called. "What's wrong?"

I crossed the street, stopping a few feet from her door. "Did you see anyone out here?"

She shook her head, but not before her eyes swept the area. "What happened?"

"I—"

Before I could explain, a white Fiat turned the corner of the street and flew past, quickly enough that neither of us caught a glimpse of the driver from head-on. I whipped my head around, staring after the car, at the flash of golden hair visible over the headrest of the driver's seat.

Donovan.

"Find out who these women are," I said, shoving the fifth sheet of paper through Clarissa's window without stopping to think that ordering an FBI agent around was probably a bad idea.

"Maisye!" she shouted as I took off across the street again. "Come back here!"

I heard her heels on the asphalt, but I was already yanking open the door of my own car, jamming the keys in the ignition, twisting harder than necessary. As it coughed to life, I swung into reverse, narrowly missing her as I pulled out of the driveway.

"Find them!" I yelled out the window before I punched the accelerator.

I had to talk to Ciar.