Now

I wake up on the family room couch, baseball bat tucked close, Captain on the floor. A glance at the wall clock tells me it's just after seven in the morning. The house is eerily silent...and a wreck.

Captain, alerted by my movement, lifts his shaggy head. I rub the sleep out of my eyes as I head straight to the coffee maker, automatically closing all the kitchen drawers and cabinets I left open last night.

When I finally dozed off in the wee hours, my dreams were wild. Annaleigh, tucked like a little flower into a terra-cotta pot. Me, rushing through Walmart desperately trying to find the gardening aisle where they'd put my baby up for sale, only to find Mitchell had gotten there first.

By the time I switch the coffee maker on, my phone, resting on the counter nearby, lights up with an incoming call, like the day can't wait to sink its claws into me. Ahh... Camila. I hit Accept and put her on speaker.

"Hey, Texas." My voice is a thick rasp.

"Hey, Red." Her voice is brisk, no-nonsense. "You need to turn on the TV."

"Umm..." I rummage in the cabinet for my favorite mug.

"Channel five. Now."

Mug located and coffee poured, I reach for the remote, which is lying on the counter by the sugar bowl, and switch on the family room TV.

"...SINCE SATURDAY NIGHT,"blares a reporter's voice. Wincing, I lower the volume, but I can't lower the sudden speed of my heart. Because the image on the screen behind the reporter is my house. The red caption says LIVE. "I'm here in front of the humble Southern Indiana home shared by Proposal celebrities Julia Walden and her now-missing husband, Josh LaSala, the same property where, ninety years ago, serial killer Royce Sullivan dismembered and buried—"

"No," I breathe, marching to the living room, phone in hand. I twitch the front curtains aside. Fuck. A news van—no, two. "I have reporters in my yard, Cam." I huff my way back to the family room. The vandalism is one thing; they come, you scare them, they run. I have a feeling these people aren't running.

"Breathe, Red," says Cam.

"I can't do this right now."

"In," she says, sucking in her breath. "Then out." Whooosh. "And again. In—"

"Fuck," I hiss.

"I don't think I've ever heard you use the F word," says Cam, sounding both impressed and concerned.

"Yeah, well. I'm in shock." I slurp the coffee. It burns me. I don't care. It's too early for this. It's too everything for this.

"You do realize I'm in shock, too," she says. "I just found out Josh is missing—from the morning news."

Double fuck, I think, but Cam is just getting started.

"What the hell were you thinking, girl? You and me were texting yesterday and you made it sound like everything was fine." She releases a tired-sounding sigh. "Fuck, Red. Not cool. Really shitty of you, actually."

"I'm sorry," I say, my throat suddenly pinching closed.

Camila and Josh have stayed close since the show, and she deserved to find out from me. Right away. Which makes me think, I should call Josh's dad, if I can find his number.

"Don't be sorry," says Cam. "We're moving on. But, hon, I worry about you, out there in the middle of nowhere. And God, could you have landed in a creepier place? I'd never even heard of Royce whatever-his-name-is until—" She shivers audibly. "There are people who love you, though. You don't have to do this alone."

"I know." My tone holds a bitter edge I didn't plan. I have been doing this alone—for so long. First it was me and Josh against the world. Physically close to our neighbors, yet so very isolated. And then, when it was Josh against me, too...

Maybe I need to get out of Indiana.

But first, I need to get out of this house. I'm not sticking around with reporters lurking and the malevolent presence of Josh's mother watching me. I can feel the poison in her gaze. What have you done with my son?

I take another vicious gulp of coffee and find myself looking out the kitchen window that faces the gravel driveway. How quickly will the reporters descend on me when I make the journey from back door to car? But another sight greets me.

"Bob," I say with the same intonation as I might say a curse word. Looking right at me through his window, coffee in hand, like I'm his morning entertainment.

"Huh?" That's right—Camila's still on the line.

"Sorry. My neighbor." I wave at Bob, aggressively. He's a vulture. Just like Sheriff Mitchell, just like the American public, waiting for me to make a mistake so they can crucify me. I'm about to drop the politeness game and flip Bob off when a chill moves through me.

The words from the lullaby. Angels, vigil keeping. Watching. Spying.

The baby monitor. It only works at certain ranges.

Bob's house would be in range.

I look at him through the window. He looks back.

It was him. I fucking know it.

He stole the parent side of the monitor, waited until he thought I was asleep, then hit the Talk button and invaded my home.

You're jumping to conclusions, warns a voice in my head, but I don't care; in fact, I'm jumping further.

Could Bob have followed Josh Saturday night? Hurt him, even? His constant spying would have told him Josh was leaving. And Bob has always hated our guts. His political signs made that clear. Maybe he took them down Sunday not out of some change of heart, but because he hurt Josh and thought the signs might be a giveaway.

I've tried to make excuses for these people. I've even played devil's advocate with Josh when he was freaking out. They've never met a Synth before, I might say while surveying a fresh batch of graffiti on our siding. Of course they're scared.

When Josh got really worked up, I'd dig back further. Remember how many questions you had when I first told you? I'd use my most soothing tones. These people have those same questions. They just need a little more time to see that I'm completely normal. A few more months. A few more relatable Instagram posts. A few more positive interactions.

You know what? Fuck that.

Captain whines—where is he? Nosing at the living room rug again. A feeling moves through me, like a finger stroking down my spine, like a whisper saying pay attention.

"...and Austin is a really welcoming place, Julia..."

As Cam goes on, I set the phone down and crouch on the rug, pushing Captain aside. Rub my palm over the fibers. A cloud of dust motes billows, nothing else. I jerk my arm for Captain to move off the rug. Heave aside the armchair, fall onto all fours and roll up the rug, grunting as I go. Then, I stand to survey the cleared area. Hardwood planks, worn. A discolored, lighter area. Bleached? I lean down to sniff it. No trace of chemical—but I do sneeze. Lots of hairs, lots of dust—way too much dust—ah. The padding that makes up the bottom of the rug is disintegrating.

A crashing sound makes me swallow a scream. Captain just knocked something over...a brass figurine of a mother and child. A tchotchke from Josh's mom. It rolls over the bare floor, coming to a stop beside me. Captain whines. I pick it up. Nothing unusual here.

Just like there's nothing on the rug, or under it. Just a nervous dog and his anxious person.

"...Julia? Are you still there?"

Shit. Camila's been talking for a while.

"Yes," I say as I return the mother and child to their spot. It's a stylized little sculpture. Their rounded faces are blank curves. No eyes—no mouths—just hard, smooth gleams.

"...so I could be there by lunch. I'll bring groceries and tequila. Don't worry about the reporters, I won't say a word—just text me if you need me to pick up diapers or something. Do you need diapers? We'll hunker down, you and me and Miss Gerber Baby..."

Phone back in hand, I return to the family room, where the TV is still on. "Neighbors are assembling for the second time to walk the woods around the site of the crash..." There's a hotline, scrolling across the bottom.

I feel a stab of guilt. I should have been the one, the second Josh didn't answer my texts, scouring those woods. Assembling neighbors, even if I feared it might be fruitless. What took me so long to get moving? What the fuck is wrong with me? Could this have turned out differently if I'd just acted faster, if I'd—

"No," I find myself saying. To myself. To Camila. I don't even know. "I... That's such a nice offer, but I have some stuff to do."

Too late to join the search parties. Too late for a lot of things. But not too late to figure this out, to find Josh and claw my way out of this nightmare.

Andy. I have to see Andy. I know he hasn't gone back to LA yet. He's normally in Indiana once a quarter to teach an advanced AI course at Indiana University, but the robotics conference he's cochairing is keeping him an extra week. He's busy, he's always busy, but he'll make time for me.

Yes. I'll pack up Annaleigh, drive to Bloomington, look Andy in the eye, and demand the truth. Was he really meeting Josh at Stella's? Or did Andy confront him Saturday night? Josh's texts to me about Andy weren't exactly nice. I just want that little fucker out of our lives. Is it possible that, if they did meet, things got ugly between them? Would Josh have taken a swing? Did Andy swing back?

"Stuff?" says Cam with a huff. "C'mon, Julia. I know you're as strong as they come, but there are times when we can all use the support of our friends."

"I know. You're right." There's honking out front. Another news van? Captain barks. Annaleigh begins to cry loudly from upstairs. My breasts tingle in response. I brace my arm over my chest because I'm not staining another shirt. "Look—I have to go. Don't come. But I'll text you."

"You better," snaps Camila before hanging up.

I'll have to care about her feelings later; right now, I've got to get out of here. Not just to escape from Bob, the reporters, this town that hates me, but to go back to the beginning. To Andy. And figure out once and for all if I can still trust my best friend.

My creator.

I kick the living room rug. It unrolls, spewing dust as it falls back into place, like it's coughing out whatever secret it holds before falling silent again. I'd like to ask the mother holding the child what she saw, but she has no mouth. She has no eyes either. Only arms to hold as she blindly watches our living room, unable to tell her story.