Now

I've blown through Tenderloin before I realize my tank is almost empty. My next chance for gas is the TripMax in Eauverte; I pull in just as a flurry of rain releases. The gas station is right outside town, with cornfields behind. A little farther and this road becomes Main Street, with its bar and its church, the old comic book store and the bicycle repair shop, two tired beacons in a stretch of otherwise empty storefronts.

No one else is at the TripMax at four o'clock on a Friday evening, and I'm grateful. I'm not ready to see people, not ready to be seen—like my encounter with Deborah left some kind of grime on me that people will be able to see, to smell.

It was still worth it, though, no matter how shaken I am, because I learned one thing: she didn't kill Josh.

I lock the gas pump in place and lean against the car as it fills.

It wasn't just Deborah's limitations that convinced me—no car, no cell phone—or even her watch history on Netflix. It was her adoration of Josh. Warped, but steely strong. It's an adoration that some deep part of me recognizes, because I feel it toward Annaleigh. Call it a mother's intuition, but Deborah Reeves would not kill the angel she built a shrine for. She may still be a personal threat to me, but what else is new? She's been here all along, just fifteen minutes away. And if she hasn't killed me yet...

You killed him for the bad things he did.My eyes zone out on the mounting dollars on the pump's digital display. What did that mean? Could she have been on our property, skulking in the woods...could she have seen...

No. She's insane. Don't overthink it.

A knot of pain in my left breast reminds me I haven't been pumping enough. Is it a plugged duct? If I'm not careful, I could give myself mastitis, which is the last thing I need.

The gas keeps chugging. The gallons and dollars keep counting. The wind blows a thin mist of rain against my face. I lose my gaze in the cornfields, green and peaceful.

What might have been different if, instead of moving down here, Josh and I moved to Indianapolis like we planned? I remember my excitement when Josh took us around Indy during The Proposal filming. The city felt like just the right size for us. Big, but not too big. Midwestern-friendly with just enough of a cosmopolitan edge. I allowed myself to imagine, during that trip, that I could find a place for myself there. A favorite bookstore to haunt. A local bakery. I imagined meeting mom-friends at the park near Josh's condo, once we had kids.

Whereas the first time I set eyes on Eauverte, I had to turn on my brave face.

It'll just be until Mom gets better, Josh said.

Of course, I agreed. It's the right thing to do.

Then she didn't get better.

Would our marriage have weathered the strains of pregnancy and adjusting to real life if we hadn't also had to shoulder the immediate burden of his mother's health? The awfulness of those long months as I reckoned with morning sickness while caring for a dying woman who hated me? I tried so hard to be the positive, upbeat, nurturing Julia that Josh had fallen in love with on The Proposal. I gave it my all, and my all wasn't enough. A lesson that maybe I've never recovered from.

In retrospect, it was too much change, too fast. All of it.

We were spinning out of control, the cotton candy fantasy of our love story all the more bitter because of how quickly it dissolved. Like it had been made of nothing but sugar and air.

My phone rings, yanking me out of this string of what-ifs.

"Vanessa!" I say. Hopefully she's calling with information on Stalker Girlfriend. "Did you find out about the redhead?"

"Yes, sorry it took so long. Her name was Laura Pine."

"Was?"

"Um—she actually died, like, years ago." Vanessa's voice is soft, like she feels bad for delivering this blow, even though neither of us have met the girl. "Her Facebook page is still active, but there hasn't been anything new on it for a long time. I'll text you the link."

"Okay." I close my eyes, tilt my head back. Damn it. Stalker Girlfriend was such a strong contender for murder. She could have been obsessed with Josh for years after their breakup...then she saw him on The Proposal, which sent her into a jealous fit...strong enough to follow him to Indiana and murder him.

Now her name will just be a crossed-off dead end on my list. Just like Deborah's. It doesn't escape me that I should be sorrier that this Laura Pine died. But apparently, my emotions are no longer obeying any laws of propriety.

"Do you think you'll be coming back for Annaleigh anytime soon?" says Vanessa.

"I need a few more days. How is my sweetie?"

The air smells like cow manure and gasoline. The pump clicks. I jiggle the nozzle to release the last drops of gas and press YES on the screen for a receipt.

"Can you switch to FaceTime?" says Vanessa. "You can see her for yourself, I have her right here."

"Sure." I hit Accept on the call and nearly burst into tears when Annaleigh pops onto my screen. She's on Vanessa's hip. They're both smiling.

"Is that a new tooth?" I say. I might actually explode with emotion.

"Yes, it just pushed through!" says Vanessa as Annaleigh bounces excitedly.

"And how's she doing with formula?"

"She guzzles it right down!" says Vanessa with pride.

Annaleigh gurgles and reaches a fat hand for the phone. Laughing, Vanessa whisks the phone out of her reach, angling it high above their heads as Annaleigh keeps reaching and says, "Ma-ma-ma-ma!"

"Hello, sweetheart," I say. I have to smile for her. Show her my brave face. "How are you, my baby? Do you miss your mama?"

"She's great," says Vanessa in a cute voice, looking at Annaleigh. "Aren't we doing great? And we like broccoli!" It's hard to believe this is the same woman who looked horrified at the idea of a baby waking up in the night. Was that just yesterday?

"That's wonderful!" I take a deep breath.

"Ooops! Not that, sweetie!" cries Vanessa as the image on the phone swerves wildly.

"If you have to go, that's fine," I say. But actually, I'm the one that needs to go. I can't bear looking at Annaleigh any longer, or I'm going to lose it. Not to mention the pressure in my breasts is incredibly painful.

"We're just mixing up some formula, so... Okay, Annaleigh, say bye-bye!"

"Ma-ma!" shrieks Annaleigh with one last feral grab toward the screen, and they disconnect.

I stand there, staring at the empty screen for another few seconds. Then I hit the link in the message Vanessa sent. Facebook opens to Laura Pine's page.

Her picture is sweet. She has a gentle, round face. Long red hair like mine. A snub nose.

The page has become a memorial wall. Her information section doesn't say much, just the dates of her birth and death and that she's survived by her loving parents, a brother, and her husband. This is a surprise. Looking at these dates, Laura Pine must have died when she and Josh were still in college. When did she get married? I pop into her pictures, but there are only five, mostly of her as a young teen.

There's no mention of how she died. A quick Google search doesn't give me anything quickly—there are too many Laura Pines.

Returning to her Facebook page, I scroll a little bit, registering the first handful of condolences. Rest in peace, beautiful Laura. You're flying now, sweet girl. I'll never forget you. And then, with a swipe of my thumb, I close the app. Laura Pine died years and years ago, which means she's off my list and I should stop wasting my time.

Ten minutes later, gas tank full and vomit swabbed off the seat with paper towels, I pull onto the shoulder of the road well in advance of home, just like I did the other night. It's just after five o'clock, and the day is already fading. Even though it's stopped raining, the air tastes humid and heavy, like more rain is coming.

I jog the whole way home through the woods, squelching over the moist layers of leaves. Having a little light, however dim, makes all the difference, and if ghosts walk this forest, I don't see them tonight.

Entering through the back door, I lock it quickly behind me. Right away, Captain is all over me. The house smells stale, lonely, but Captain is a comfort.

"It's okay, boy. I'm okay. Good dog." I scratch his ears as his tail wags furiously. "Do you need to go out? I'll let you out in a minute."

First, I get him fresh water and dry food. He sniffs at the food and whines, his eyes full of reproach.

"Sorry, Captain. The good stuff's gone."

My eyes instinctively go to the side window. I have the blinds closed, at least, so if Bob is trying to observe my arrival, he's out of luck.

Before I've even made it to the fridge to examine the dinner options for myself, there's a noise of screeching wheels at the front of the house, like multiple cars arriving quickly.

Instinctively, I turn off the kitchen lights. I walk on quiet feet to the living room and peek out the curtains.

Two cars, with someone emerging from each, a man and a woman, converging briskly at my front door. My heart leaps into my throat. The man is Andy.

"It doesn't look like she's home," says the woman. She's fully suited, with a briefcase, and I realize that I know her, too. Viola. Determined, apparently, to show up only at the worst moments in my life.

"Then we wait. We're not leaving here without her," says Andy. "Let's walk around and see if we can get in the back."

Did I lock the back door? I'm about to sprint back to check when the roar of another vehicle grabs my attention. Andy and Viola have stopped to look, too. I crouch, breathing quietly, as the glare of headlights slices through the curtains. Doors slam. I peek back up. I try to make out who the newcomers are, but they've left their headlights on, and the blast of light makes everything hard to see.

"I can't believe it," says Andy to Viola. "Get Eden on the phone."

Eden? What the actual fuck?

"Step away from that door!" barks someone. His body makes a dark blot against the brightness, and the tall hat tells me everything I need to know. A sheriff's deputy—and two more of them right behind.

The scene unfolding seems ridiculous, like a piece of absurd theater, as I watch the two parties who want to lock me away—one to condemn me, the other to save me—come face-to-face. Andy Wekstein and Mitchell's men don't seem to belong in the same universe, and yet here they are at the end of County Road HH, in Middle-of-Nowhere, Indiana, fighting over me.

"Back the hell away from us or we will sue your asses," growls Andy.

"Sir, ma'am, we are officers of the law," says the deputy. "Please move away from the door."

"You move away," says Andy. "Julia Walden belongs to WekTech, and we are here to repossess her."

"Julia Walden is the prime suspect in a murder investigation, and we are taking her in," says a drawling voice. Mitchell himself, walking toward Andy like Andy's a bug he can squash.

"Julia Walden belongs to me," snarls Andy, beckoning to Viola. She hands him a sheaf of papers, which Andy flings toward the sheriff's chest. The papers thwack harmlessly. Mitchell doesn't even flinch.

"This is my jurisdiction. Don't make me arrest you, too, Wekstein."

"You are out of line here, Sheriff," says Andy. "And you have no idea how miserable my lawyers can make your life." He's much shorter than Mitchell, but somehow just as large a presence.

Protective. Doing what he thinks is right for me. But it's no longer about what anyone else thinks is right for me. Especially not a liar who pretended he only vaguely knew Eden when now she's the first person he wants to call. I'm already padding away from the living room on silent feet.

"Shhh. Stay, boy," I whisper to Captain as I slip on my shoes, grab my purse, and leave quietly out the back door.

As I move toward the trees, I have the terrible feeling that I'm never coming back here.

At first I walk slowly, quietly, but once I reach the protection of thicker trees, I break into a jog. Mist hangs in the air like a wet veil.

My only thought is to circle around Bob's and try to come out where my car is parked. From there, drive as fast as I can, it almost doesn't matter where, as long as I get out of Dover County. Chicago? But how long could I realistically hole up with Phil and Vanessa? Is there any hope left of finding out who did this to Josh? The only people left on my list are Bob, Eden, and Andy. None of them seem realistic right now, but I guess that doesn't matter anymore, because there's a muted cry of "Hey! Over here!" from somewhere behind me.

Adrenaline explodes through me. Bursting forward, I tear through the gloam, arms raised to protect my face as wet branches whip at me. I should have been running flat out from the start. I miscalculated. I can only hope it's not the last mistake I get to make.

Each breath is a blast of pain in my lungs as I jump over a log, then duck under a tangle of branches. The physical work of running takes over until all I am is a thunder of heartbeat, lungs fighting, legs burning. A sharp stitch slashes at my side. I gulp air. It has a cool, clean edge, like water, except I can't get enough of it.

Something catches on my ankle, and my palms hit the ground, hard. My purse goes flying. Pain spikes through my left foot and up my leg, and I try to heave myself up, but the second I put my weight on my foot, I crumple. "Aaahh," I breathe, wincing as I force my foot down again. I lean on it. Try to push into the pain because I can't afford to retreat. This is not the time to break. If only I could turn off my dampers. I know the science; my body is built to heal. It's pure programming holding it back, slowing me down.

My palms are wet with mud, my clothes, too. I hobble forward but my ankle gives way again. Stupid. I've gone and sprained it. My chances of getting away are pretty much dead. It all happened so fast. They're going to catch up now, and this pathetic chase behind my house is my grand finale.

I take another limping step, a sob catching in my throat. From my grand entrance into the world, to this. Poor, naive Julia in her sequins and heels. Thinking on Launch Day that she was walking into a magnificent love story.

Wake up, you idiot, I want to tell her. I want to shake her until her teeth rattle in her pretty, stupid head. They're not going to love you. They're going to hate you and break you and hunt you down. That's how this ends. You think this road leads to love, but it leads straight to hell. Run. Run, because I can't.

My entire body is jerked back so fast I don't have time to cry out. Something heavy locks around my torso. Just as a scream bubbles up my throat, a hand is over my mouth, meaty, moist, turning my scream into a mouse-sized squeak. A voice, hot and low, says, "Shhh. They'll lock you up. You don't want that. Follow me. Quietly." There's a second of heavy breathing. "I'm going to take my hand off. Don't scream."

The hand is gone, and I'm slugging down sweet air. I turn to face none other than Bob Campini. He's in a dark gray sweatshirt over camo cargo pants, his white hair pulled into a short ponytail at the nape of his neck, his grizzled white beard shot through with rivers of gray.

"Get away from me," I hiss, taking two lurching steps back and almost falling again.

He extends a large hand. "I'm helping you, Julia."

In the beat of a single breath, I weigh the threats.

Creepy neighbor? Or certain handcuffs?

I reach out. He closes his rough, calloused fingers around my hand and tugs. "Come on."

Between a run and a limp, I move behind Bob through the brush and the trees. The back of his barn is soon visible. "My purse," I suddenly gasp, but he says, "No time." There are sounds in the woods, men's voices calling to each other. We hug the side of the barn, moving toward the front. A large sign above the sliding door proclaims BOB'S MEAT PROCESSING in faded lettering. A horrible stench is coming from inside. Something ripe and decaying mixed with machinery oil and bleach.

"In here," he says as I step into the stink and the gloom. "Hide. Wait." And then there's a groaning scrape like a monster yawning as he closes the door, and I'm in total darkness. I hear the drag of a dead bolt followed by the sharp click of a padlock.

Okay. He said to hide. I grope my way forward, hands outstretched. I touch something cold. A table? I work my way around it and sink to the floor, hoping this will hide me if anyone looks in. Then I just breathe. And listen.

The silence is oppressive. My heartbeat seems to mark a distorted time, like hours are hanging between each second. It's an eternity and an eternity again. In the darkness, my body loses shape. Everything loses shape, like I've left the physical world and have entered a world of shadow and nightmare.

Finally, muted voices.

"You found her purse? Sure, I heard some sounds from back there. Figured it was deer." Bob's voice. "You'll hit County Road JJ if you head straight through the woods."

The answering voices are too low for me to make out the words.

There's a rough laugh—Bob's. "Yessir, I'll be glad when she's cleared out of here." Pause. "Have a good night."

A fresh silence falls. Everything in my body wants to move, every muscle coils to keep running, but I'm trapped. Injured. I reach a tentative hand down to my ankle, hoping it's improved, and suck back a swear word as the pain lances me again. A dull throbbing in my breasts reminds me I still haven't pumped. I had a pump in my purse, but that's gone.

A clicking sound—the padlock. No time to cry about my pain. Is Bob actually helping me? Or did he lure me in here just for the satisfaction of finishing me off himself?

I should try to find a weapon on the off chance that maybe, like Deborah, he hasn't brushed up on his No Harm knowledge. Anything to give me the advantage. The barn door slides open and suddenly, handcuffs seem like the better option, because Bob is back, and dear God—he's holding a cleaver.

I'm about to get dismembered by Royce Sullivan's successor. Will the neighbors hear me scream? Did anyone hear the screams of the twenty-two women as they died? I know from Wikipedia how Sullivan worked. He left them alive for a while. It was a game of hide-and-seek on acres of playground that ended on the stump. The girls weren't local. They came from all over. Minnesota, California, Massachusetts—he wrote letters to them. They fell in love with his letters, and they came. Trusting the fantasy he spun. Trusting the winning smile in his picture. He sent them all that same picture, of him posing with the axe, and they came, one after the next, so hungry for love they didn't notice the weapon in his fucking hand as he courted them.

I don't know if there were any neighbors close enough, back then, when this was all just one piece of lonely farmland. But I can imagine someone, ninety years ago, saying the same thing I said to Mitchell.

No, Officer. It was probably just a fox.