Now

"Vanessa! Hi! Thank you for calling me back!"

I know my voice sounds too bright, but I'm in overdrive and I can't seem to calm down. Don't want to calm down, because that means breaking down, because my husband is dead, but if I stop to cry, stop to process, I could be in handcuffs before I know it, and I am now Annaleigh's only parent, and for her, I have to be strong and save my heartbreak for some future time when I can afford to let my emotions have their turn.

I just got the name of Walmart woman from Andy via text. Deborah Reeves, a name that's been bothering me because I feel like I've heard it somewhere else. Andy's other text, I didn't acknowledge, but it's burning in my mind. Saw the news. So sorry for your loss. Please let WekTech step in.

Yes, I want Andy to be a safe older brother, but repossession means handing total control to lawyers who can't possibly give an actual fuck about me. It means me waiting, helpless, for some version of justice, and, based on how Christi's divorce battle is playing out, justice cannot be counted on. But the biggest reason I'll never agree to let WekTech step in? Annaleigh. Any protection WekTech can give me will not include her, and there's no way in hell I'm letting myself be separated from my baby on anything other than my own terms.

"Julia!" says Vanessa, matching my energy. "Annaleigh just went down for a nap. We got her a Pack 'n Play! She kept escaping from her nest. She's doing great, by the way. She's suuuuch a cutie."

"I'm so glad it's going well." For once, as much as my heart is tugging at me, I can't stop to dwell on my baby. "Listen, I need a favor. A huge favor, actually. You know that friend you have at Facebook? The one who got you all those pictures of Josh?"

"Yes—"

"There's a picture of Josh with a redhead in your album. I need to get in touch with her. Anything he can get—her name, a current address, a phone number—" With my pen, I tap-tap on the notepad I brought up from the kitchen. Where it says GROCERY LIST at the top, I've crossed out GROCERY and written SUSPECTS in angry all-cap letters. Adams was supposed to take these notes. The sheriff was supposed to dig into these leads. Not me.

"Um...sure? I could call him Monday—"

"Now," I interrupt. "Listen, the situation with Josh has escalated. Whatever it takes. I'll pay him, I don't care."

"God, Julia, no, I'm sure he doesn't want your money! I'm so sorry to hear that. I'll call him right now."

"Let me know as soon as you hear back."

"Will do."

We disconnect. I'm sitting in Annaleigh's room, in the rocking chair by the window, one level removed from the reporters. Bob, as usual, is looking at me through binoculars from the window across the way. He has no idea he's one of the names on my list.

The entire list is far-fetched. I know this. Josh could have been killed by someone else entirely—like an anonymous vandal. But I can only work with what I know. And the bottom line is, if I don't find credible evidence that someone else might be guilty, this could be the end for me. Would I go to jail? Or would they turn me off like Lars and consign me to a glass display?

I gaze at the suspect list. Who would cut off Josh's arm after he was dead and leave it in the woods? Why is his ring finger missing? Where is the rest of his body? Could it have something to do with Royce? No, that seems crazy, but...the questions pick and pick at my brain. As for his watch...an innocent accident. He dropped it... Annaleigh got ahold of it...there are so many reasonable ways a broken watch could end up under an entryway bench, right?

I make a little star next to Deborah Reeves, then chew on my pen's clicker. I really do feel like I've seen her name. Not back then. Recently.

Setting aside my list, the pen still between my teeth, I grab my phone, pull up a Google search and type in Deborah Reeves Eauverte address.

Damn. Apparently there are people named Deborah Reeves all over Indiana. But none in Eauverte. Of course, that Walmart is a hub for any number of small surrounding towns.

I close my eyes and let my phone drop to my lap. Where? Where have I seen her name? I can see it in my mind. In...black pen? And spider-thin script.

I'm out of my chair and in the master closet within seconds.

In the corner, two huge plastic bins are marked JULIA and JOSH. They contain nearly a year's worth of mail. I muscle them out into my bedroom.

Unclasping the lid from my bin first, I turn it on its side and dump everything out—letters and cards and photos and promo material from businesses. Even some small gifts. Personalized lip balm. Fan art of the proposal. An engraved copper pendant.

I remember how mad Josh was when I didn't let him throw all this stuff away. It was after that first death threat.

"We should keep these just in case," I said, clutching the letter where a man described wanting to carve out my eyes so I couldn't watch him as he fucked me.

"This is trash," Josh argued, angry. So angry. Poor Josh. If being on The Proposal was some version of paradise for him, those first couple months in this house were hell.

"If something happens, this is evidence," I explained. "I'll get some bins. You don't even have to read anything."

I was calm about it at the time. Rational. Not actually thinking anything bad would happen. Keeping all this was merely an insurance policy, future security that we'd never need to draw on, against that one-in-a-million chance.

Well, here we are.

It takes me a long time to sort through my stuff, but a fever of energy fuels me. By the time I'm done, with no sign of anything from Deborah Reeves, I'm hungry. I have to pump. I have to pee. But I don't stop. I dump out Josh's bin.

The hate mail comes in more flavors than ice cream. Interestingly, Josh has more than me.

You're going to burn for fornicating with a Bot.

Our country is going straight to hell because of people like you!

Most of this drivel bears no return address, though hilariously, some does. Seeing Josh's name written over and over is painful. Josh is dead, I realize again.

The last time I really sobbed about Josh was well before his disappearance. He was mad at me. It was over something silly. It always was. I'd forgotten to tell him I had dinner plans—a video chat with Cam and some of the other Proposal girls—but Josh had made a surprise reservation for us at an Italian place, which he had to cancel. The memory is a little fuzzy, as all memories are, but the emotions are crystal clear. An overwhelming sense of the fragility of us. How easily we could hurt each other. How love isn't just the fuzzy stuff, but an almost violent vulnerability. An openness to pain, the thing we hate most, in order to get love, the thing we need most. Ironic, I can't help but think. Or paradoxical. And what if you keep getting hurt? Can you stay open forever? Or does some overpowering instinct force you to retreat, close, protect—and in turn, cut yourself off from love? If reality is made by choosing, what reality were we making in those awful weeks and months as we chipped away at each other with our words, with our silences, with our fears closing in until our love was a scared little animal cowering in the corner?

I don't know how much time I spend sitting there, frozen with my hands around one of the letters, but finally, I wake back up. I still can't cry, but I do have to laugh. Because right here, in front of my left knee, is a greeting card–sized envelope addressed to Josh LaSala in a spidery black script. The return address: Deborah Reeves.

It's still sealed, so I rip in, then pull out a Hallmark greeting card with an Easter bunny on the front. Inside, the thin scrawl covers one side.

Dear Josh,

I've called and called, but I think you have blocked my number.

You may not remember me, but your mother and I used to be best friends. We were pregnant at the same time. I made you a baby blanket with embroidered suns and clouds. You were the cutest baby and we all adored you.

I didn't want you to marry Julia, but you did. I was afraid you might because I know how you like redheads, which is why I tried to get her out of the way.

You have made a terrible mistake! Your life is in danger!!! You need to leave her immediately, and don't look back! With your mother being sick, it is my responsibility to look out for you, now more than ever!!!

Love,

Deb

I feel so strange reading this. I flip back and forth between the perky, rosy-cheeked Easter bunny and the dark interior. Right after the attack, everyone decided that this woman was an unhinged fan, and despite my reservations, I went along with it. Seeing her in Walmart two nights ago debunked that once and for all. And now it turns out she knew Josh? Did Josh recognize her back then?

I read the note a second time. It's protective. Fierce. Like a mother would be, even though she's not his mother. And the thing she wanted to protect him from? Me.

Obviously her ideas about Synths are ignorant, misguided. But it's hard to imagine that someone who wanted to keep Josh safe would also be his killer.

On the other hand, there's no question that she's capable of violence. I remember how flat she looked when she bashed my head onto the patio stone in the Proposal mansion. Like she had no emotion. No conscience to stop her.

Setting the card aside, I quickly sort through the rest of the mail. There are a dozen more cards from her, which must be why her name stuck in my mind. They're all unopened, and the postmarks tell me they were all sent after the first. I open them in order. The next card has a picture of a stork carrying a baby.

Josh, congratulations on your new baby! I just read the article in WHAT'S UP and you make a beautiful family. Please remember that your happiness will be short-lived because of your wife. Send a response so that I know you are getting my letters!!!!!!

The cards continue in this vein, getting more and more desperate. The final one, with a cheerful Santa on the front even though it was postmarked just three weeks ago, in April, reads:

You have broken my heart just like the others. I am cursed. God has cursed me. Everyone I love is marked for death. If I was braver I would kill myself and end this life of misery, but I'm just a tired old woman everyone hates. I pray your guardian angel protects you but I already know you'll die like the others. I can only hope your baby survives.

Her words send goose bumps all over my body. The first letter was somewhat relatable, but in this final letter, every word tastes like poison seeping from a poisoned mind.

Maybe she did kill Josh. I already know you'll die, she wrote. Well, she would know that, if she was going to murder him. And what the fuck does she mean about Annaleigh surviving? Does she consider me a threat to my own child? Or is she the threat? Why not try to hurt me again? Why would she hurt Josh? It doesn't make sense.

I rise from the detritus of the mail and type her address into my phone. If Deborah is somehow an active threat to my daughter, there's no question; I have to confront her.

The app shows a little blue line between my house and hers, at 442 E Deerhead Trail, Tenderloin, Indiana. After all this, I can be there in under fifteen minutes.

I'm not sure what I'm going to say to this woman, but I'm under no illusions I'll be safe confronting my attacker and Josh's possible killer.

I'm going to need a weapon.