Now

The sound of the sheriff's departing cruiser faded away a full minute ago, and Annaleigh is squawking in the kitchen, but here I stand, rooted in the foyer with my fists clenched, burning and burning with anger.

I lied. I do remember the name of the campsite where Josh was spending the night. And the diner. I know exactly where my husband was—or at least, where he was supposed to be.

In the moment, withholding that information from Mitchell and Adams was completely knee-jerk. The same instinct that activated the first day I was awake, when I grabbed Cam's wrist in the limo: Protect yourself. And after seeing the look in Sheriff Mitchell's eyes when he said, I think you killed him, my instinct to withhold is vindicated.

They don't care about finding Josh. What they care about is pinning his disappearance on me, conjuring up a crime that didn't happen, and locking me up.

It's not even that the target on my back is new; people have been coming for me since I made my first social media post. But it's one thing to be hated by girls in gowns or guys with spray paint. It's another to be hated by a man with a pair of handcuffs hanging from his belt who's looking at me like I'm his next steak dinner.

I don't want this to be happening. Damn it, the sheriff should know that I can't murder anyone. No Harm coding is kind of a big deal; Royce Sullivan himself could take me apart piece by piece and I wouldn't even be able to put up a fight. But Mitchell won't give a shit about the science, will he? I've heard his sound bites. My campaign promise is to send that goddamn Synth back to California. And if it's prison instead of California, wouldn't he be delighted.

The acid heat pumping through my veins feels like it's corroding me from within. I have to move. Laundry—there's laundry, right? Of course. There's always laundry. I free Annaleigh from her high chair and set to work, moving her with me as I go. Laundry. Dishes. Countertops. The family room couch, which is in constant need of vacuuming from Captain's hair. As I rake the attachment across the upholstery, I glance at the picture on the mantel above the fireplace—Josh and his mom. Staring at me, the intruder in their house.

I turn the vacuum off and face them.

"Where are you, Josh?" I say. There's an unexpected, accusing edge to my tone. Ugh. I'm feeling all the wrong things. I've been thinking too much about myself.

What's Josh going through? Is he scared? Confused? Or happy that he's finally free of us? Either way, he has to be alive...right? He wasn't in the crashed car. Even if he wandered off, lost, Indiana doesn't have much in the way of killer wildlife. The terrain around Belmont Ridge is mild; no cliffs to fall off, no rivers to drown in. Is it possible that he disappeared on purpose, just to get out of our marriage? But...that doesn't make sense. Why not just get a divorce? It's not like I could have stopped him.

The hard truth is, I can't know if he's in terrible trouble, or meant to leave. But standing here looking at his photograph, my tumble of thoughts and emotion finally crystallizes into one single directive: find Josh.

Simple. Obvious. And the only way to ensure my safety.

I grab Annaleigh and a rag, and move my efforts to the entryway, where the sheriff and his deputy tracked in dirt. As I put Annaleigh down, I'm starting to concoct a plan. First, I'll get our babysitter here. Then I'll drive to the campsite, the first and most logical place to start my search.

Annaleigh issues a series of sharp little grunts as she tries to do her new trick: getting onto all fours. I get on my hands and knees, too, and wipe the rag over the tile. And then—

Tick-tick-tick.

I sit bolt upright on my heels.

"Josh?"

Tick-tick-tick.Fear crinkles up my spine. It's his watch; I'd know the sound anywhere.

I can take it off, he offered...so sweet, just so sweet...

The memory hurts. I squeeze my eyes shut. What if I can't find him? What if the campsite is a dead end? Then what?

Oh, Josh.You were never supposed to leave me.

But even gone, he's not really gone—he's burrowed into me, into my senses, my programming. Whatever the hell I am is so entwined with him I can't even pick the damn ticking out of the tangles in my brain—

The thing tearing at my chest must be grief. I bow over the floor and imagine myself losing it. Crying. Screaming. Cursing. I can't protect myself, Josh. They're cornering me and my claws are useless, I can't fight back—

"Stop," I whisper to myself. My breathing is too quick. I'm nearly hyperventilating. This won't do at all—not now, when so much is at stake—

The ticking isn't real. The voice in the nursery wasn't real. A fox screamed, or another animal, not the ghosts of Royce Sullivan's dismembered victims—not the girls who found themselves alone, helpless before the axe, here on this very land I stand on—

"Ba," says Annaleigh, her brow furrowed with deep concern, like she can sense I'm about to come undone.

Fuck.I can't lose it. I'm all Annaleigh has.

Abandoning the rag, I lift my baby up, ignoring the retreating edge of my panic, ignoring the tick-tick-tick that still sounds so real, so close, like Josh is standing right behind me. She coos softly and gives her eyes a double-fisted rub.

"You're ready for a nap, aren't you?" I kiss Annaleigh's warm forehead and head upstairs. There's nothing like a baby's very practical needs to bring you back to earth. I'm feeling more normal already as we nurse in the glider. One step at a time, I remind myself.

I can't find her favorite blanket when she finishes, the blue one with the embroidered suns and clouds, but I quickly locate her second favorite. She raises it to her face with a sigh. Then I settle her into her crib and pull out my phone to text our babysitter, Eden.

I need to run out for the afternoon. Any chance you're free?

God love her, Eden's response dings before the phone has even left my hand.

Sure. B over soon.

Finally, I go to the window to draw the curtains closed.

Ah. Bob. Watching me through binoculars from one of his usual spots on the second floor. For a minute, I stand there, looking straight back at him. I thought we had turned a new leaf Sunday, when he came by. That the spying would stop. Apparently not.

I raise a hand. Hello, creep. Do you see me, seeing you? Do you care?

He doesn't move. We stare at each other for a while longer. Then I yank the curtains closed and turn the sound machine to the Rain setting. It sounds like a hundred layered whispers. That's how I heard the male voice. It has to be.

Not Josh. Not an intruder. Not a ghost.

Just a digital blip in the white noise.