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“Yes,” I assure her.

She hesitates still. “You want a ride?”

For one beautiful second, warmth blooms in my chest and I almost say yes, but then I remember she lives in the opposite direction. I can’t inconvenience her like that, especially this late at night.

“No, that’s okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Thank you, though.”

She gives a small smile, car keys already in hand. “Alright, if you’re sure. See you Tuesday.”

“See you.”

I watch until her taillights disappear around the corner.

The bus is four minutes late. I count each one under my breath, staying directly beneath the shelter’s buzzing light. When it finally shows up and hisses to a stop, I board, drop into the seat right behind the driver, and press my knees together to keep from turning to check every passing car.

I take it all the way home. There’s no getting off early, no convincing myself headlights are following us, no panicking because a dark car happens to take the same road.

When I step off at my stop, it feels like an accomplishment. A tiny, stupid victory, but still a victory.

The neighborhood is quiet, and most windows are dark. There are no strange cars, no men smoking—nothing out of place.

I breathe easier, my shoulders loosening just a little.

By the time I reach our duplex, I’m thinking about my design again—how the buttons should be real pearl, not those fake plastic ones. Definitely.

I unlock the front door and call out, “Mom?” as I kick off my shoes.

There’s no response. Her car was outside, so she should be home. Maybe I got lucky, and she’s asleep.

I leave the grocery bag on the kitchen counter—eggs, bread, coffee pods, and bacon, twenty-three dollars and some change from my pay disappearing into the food she asked for—and head down the hall.

My bedroom door is open.

I left it closed. I know I did. And yeah, it doesn’t lock, but Mom hasn’t been going into my room lately. I kind of thought maybe she decided I’m finally old enough to deserve at least a little privacy.

Okay—okay, okay, okay. Maybe she did some cleaning and wanted to check my wastebasket for trash? Or she washed my bedding for some reason? Or Wade’s killer is in there waiting for me, and Mom is lying dead in her bedroom, and that’s why she didn’t answer.

No, it’s fine, I try to tell myself. Maybe Mom needed to use my scissors for something. It has to be something like that.

Please, please let it be something like that.

I take a deep breath, try to prepare myself for the worst, and tiptoe forward to push the door wider.

At first, nothing looks obviously wrong.

My bed is exactly how I left it. My desk is the same. The curtains are still covering my window. The closet door is half open like it always is.

Then I see the shoebox.

It is sitting in the middle of my mattress.

Open.

Empty.