Now

The sun is starting its descent by the time I set back toward the campsite. I walk quietly over the soft squish of the ground, swishing clouds of gnats away as I go.

It's been miserable, hiding in the woods. The pressure in my breasts from milk got so painful, I pulled up my shirt and tried to hand-express. It didn't go well.

During Annaleigh's first weeks of life, when I was barely sleeping, if someone had offered me a few hours in the woods alone? I would have cried from gratitude. Of course, in that scenario I never would have imagined myself peeing in a bush, cursing the armies of ants determined to climb my legs, and yanking at my own sore nipples.

Finally, there's a flash of army green up ahead—Josh's tent. And my car, a silver glimmer just beyond.

Fresh yellow tape has been strung around the campsite, but no one appears to be standing guard. I pick my way back to my car. Climb in, close the door as softly as I can. The second I push the lock button, my milk starts releasing.

"Damn it," I say, nearly crying from the pressure and the pain as I fumble for my breast pump. Shirt up, I'm fitting it onto my breasts, pushing the power button. Just as milk streams into the twin bottles, I hear a loud female voice.

"Excuse me! Ma'am!"

Crossing toward my car from the blue tent is Miss Pert. Gray hair, athletic build, brisk walk.

"Fuck no," I growl, and start the car with a ragey twist of the key while I try to juggle both bottles with my other hand. I jam the accelerator, spitting gravel and dirt, the car weaving as I struggle to drive and pump. Finally, I shoot out of the campground and onto the paved county road. It's five o'clock, later than I thought. I need to charge my phone and text Eden, but I have no free hands. At least the milk is still streaming out, relieving one discomfort. At least the road is smooth. I creep up to 80 miles per hour.

I've never felt so weak, so desperate. Thirsty, hungry, dirty, stiff, with a deep panic from being away from Annaleigh for too long. All I want to do right now is go home. Take a shower and put on fresh clothes and snuggle my baby and try to feel as safe as I can for as long as I can.

A lit marquee to the right of the road catches my eye: Stella's. Old-Fashioned Diner Food for the Whole Family. The place where Andy and Josh were supposed to meet for breakfast on Sunday. I nearly spin out with how fast I take the turnoff into the small parking lot. Everything in me is screaming to get back to my baby, but I have to do this.

I park, plug my phone in to charge, and try to make myself presentable. Cap off the pumping bottles, readjust my bra. Saucer-sized milk stains adorn the front of my shirt, but I brought a fleece sweatshirt. I fight my way into it.

The diner is run-down, like everything in Southern Indiana. Tin roof and weathered siding. Even in the parking lot, the smell of old oil hangs in the air. It's worse inside—fishy, like clam chowder gone wrong. Brown booths line the sides, only one occupied by two old men. The LED lighting is cold, unforgiving, showing every rip in the vinyl booths, every chip on the tables. I wish I had hand sanitizer.

"Hi," I say to the iron-haired woman behind the aluminum breakfast bar, the obvious candidate for questioning. She's running a rag over the surface, scattering food residue as she goes.

"What can I getcha?"

When she says this, I realize that no matter how unappetizing this place is, I should probably eat.

I force a smile and slide onto a padded barstool. "What do you recommend?"

"Fish fry's on special. Or you like pancakes?"

"Pancakes, please. And decaf. Water, too."

She shouts my order through the small pass-through window into the kitchen.

I lean forward on the counter, tucking my hands into the sleeves of my fleece so I don't have to touch anything. "Um, can I ask, were you here on Sunday?"

"Here every day." She's setting the coffee for me, her back turned.

"Do you remember seeing a dark-haired guy, midthirties, kind of...scruffy? Waiting for someone else? Probably for a long time?"

"Nope."

Andy already said Josh didn't show. But what if Josh got the time wrong and they somehow missed each other?

"What about a really handsome guy? Brown hair, athletic build?" If my phone wasn't charging back in the car, I could show her pictures of both Andy and Josh. "Actually, do you watch The Proposal?"

"Survivor kinda gal." She plunks down a plate of pancakes, a sticky carafe of syrup, and a ceramic mug, then pours the coffee in. It sloshes over. "That be all?"

"So you didn't see a handsome guy with—"

"Nope."

"Okay. Thanks," I say, deflated. This stop was definitely a waste of time.

As I scarf down the pancakes, my eyes trail up to the TV above the bar. It's playing live coverage of the Antique Car Convention in Indianapolis. Josh went once, as a kid. It was one of the few happy memories he had with his dad, Phil, a financier and all-around jerk who now lives in Chicago with his twenty-year-old fiancée.

Josh and I talked about trying to go to the convention this year, but Annaleigh gets cranky without her naps, so we pinkie promised each other we'd go next year.

Next year. The year of the new house, the easier life, the fresh start. What if it's just me next year? Alone?

I stuff a bite of pancake into my mouth and try not to project. It could still be fine. As long as there's no body, I have to keep assuming Josh is alive.

When the TV reporter pushes their big microphone toward someone, I actually gasp. Camila Reyes is smiling down at me, like a sign from above. She's looking fabulous in a bright yellow cocktail dress and chunky silver heels, her dark hair softly curled. The volume is down, but a blurb flashes under her image: BMW brAND AMBASSADOR.

I should text her. Indy is just a couple hours away; she could come down to Eauverte after the convention. I've been resisting involving her and Andy in this mess, but that's shortsighted. I need help.

I wave my credit card at the woman. As she runs it, I try one last time.

"I'm sorry to be obnoxious—but those guys I was asking about? One of them is my husband. He was supposed to meet our friend here Sunday, for breakfast. My friend said he didn't show. I just... If you saw anything at all—"

"For breakfast?" The woman chuckles and returns my card. "Sunday?"

"Yes." Hope expands in my chest. "Did you see them?"

She slaps her rag down like this is hilarious. "Honey, we were all worshipping the Lord."

"Excuse me?"

"Church," she says, louder, like I'm hard of hearing. "We're closed Sundays until dinner so we can all go to church."

"Oh," I say, feeling foolish. "Thank you."

I see myself out. Back in the car, my phone is finally charged. Missed calls and texts are popping up like a rash.

Andy. Julia, call me. I'm really worried.

Ally Buoncore from Netflix. Hey! In Indy next week. Can we schedule some face time? I'd love to see where you're at with considering the documentary!

I have half a mind to block her number. Why can't she get that I just want to be left alone?

Eden. Out of wet wipes! Can u pick some up on ur way?

Eden, again. Hey, putting A down, just want to make sure ur ok

Next, a selfie of her and Annaleigh, pressed cheek to cheek.

I compose a text to Eden first, so she doesn't worry.

Sorry! Phone died, running late, will pick up wipes. Back in 2h.

Next, I message Cam.

Hey Texas. Saw on TV that you're in Indy. Call me!

I don't have the heart to tell her the bad news about Josh's disappearance via text, even though as his friend—our friend—Cam deserves to know.

And then, with an obsessive twitch of the fingers, I'm back on Josh's messages, reading every word like there's a secret behind them I just haven't dug out yet.

First, I read the ones I showed the sheriff with our happy good mornings and kissy emoji.

Then, farther up, the others.

You and Josh have trouble at home?Mitchell asked this morning.

Yes, Sheriff. My husband thinks my designer is in love with and/or obsessed with me, which makes him violently angry. And worse? He thinks I'm in love with Andy, too.

I stare at Josh's texts from after he left Saturday night. The first time stamp is 8:52 p.m. At the time, I imagined him fully set up at the campsite and settling into his tent, but after overhearing Miss Pert, I know he was still on the road.

Josh: Meeting up w Andy. FYI, if I have to beat the shit out of him, I will.

Me: Josh, please be calm. It's not what you think. Just listen to Andy's side.

Josh: HE IS IN LOVE WITH MY WIFE

Me: omg babe can we not do this again??? Please???

Josh: he wants you to himself, it's so obvious. I just want that little fucker out of our lives

I stare and stare. My heart is beating fast. I'm angry. Really angry.

For a few seconds, I sit in the tension of wanting to curse Josh out and throw my arms around him. Of wanting to scream fuck you and wanting to whisper I love you, please don't ever leave me. When the tug-of-war gets unbearable, I push a burst of air out through my nose, swipe the messages off-screen and toss the phone into the passenger seat.

As I start the car, I try to return to calm, problem-solving mode. I imagine Josh arriving at the campsite after all these emotional texts. Setting up the tent in a fury, which would make him awkward. Inefficient. Like a newbie, the lady said. Driving off shortly after...where? To get supplies of some kind? Never imagining he'd swerve off the road. I imagine him lost in the woods. Disoriented, roughing it, like I just did. Or stumbling toward some stranger's house. Maybe with a concussion. But what about the damn text the next morning? Unless someone else sent it...

The road is getting harder to see. It's after six, and soon it will be pitch-black. My headlights cut a lonely path, and I know I need to use all my focus to scan for deer, but instead, I increase my speed. Seventy-five. Eighty. Eighty-five.

And then it hits me: Josh's texts from Saturday night didn't say where or when he was meeting Andy. The specifics about breakfast at Stella's, I got from Andy, and now that I know Stella's was closed...

I take a curve too fast and realize I'm going ninety, a reckless speed for these country roads.

What if Andy lied?

Not just about the location of their meeting, but the time? The day? What if after Andy left my place Saturday night, he went straight to meet Josh? And what if Josh crashed his car on the way to that meeting?

My stomach twists. Yes, that would explain Josh setting up the tent and leaving. But it feels so wrong to doubt Andy... Anyway, why would two grown men meet at night when their conflict could wait until morning? And why would Andy lie about it to me?

Mileage signs pop out of the darkness, like little slaps in the face saying Slow down, Julia. Slow down. But my speed feels pretend. I can't really be going ninety-five. What's real? What's not?

Doubting Andy feels like doubting myself. On my Launch Day, Andy's was the first face I saw. My first thought? Kind. A gut instinct I've always trusted.

My world is cracking. I'm terrified one minute, reckless the next. I'm hearing voices that aren't there, a ticking that's not there.

I dig my foot into the accelerator, as if I can outrun the thing unfolding in my chest. A thought—a feeling—a core-deep instinct that could split me apart if I let it.

I am not to be trusted.