When Sandy looked up, there was a kid about her age with messy blond hair, some freckles across his nose, and perfect teeth. He wasn’t Sandy’s type—too pretty. But he was cute, there was no getting around it. He knew it, too, which, annoyingly, made him cuter.

He was holding a cigarette out toward Sandy, a lit one in his other hand. “You look like you could use one.”

Sandy looked around before she reached over and took it. What could they do, kick her out? Technically, she wasn’t even in school. She leaned forward and lit it on the Zippo he’d flipped open, the kerosene bringing back unwanted memories of one of Jenna’s old boyfriends. Sandy took a deep drag and felt her body steady on the exhale.

“I’m Aidan,” the kid had said. She could feel him staring at the side of her face. Boys like him were always drawn to her: the slutty bad-news girl. The one who pissed off their moms. Sometimes that was fine. And sometimes it was annoying as shit. “I’m new here.”

Sandy took another drag. She should go, get away from this kid. Get home to Jenna. Sandy knew that. So why hadn’t she moved off the wall? “Cool,” she said.

The kid had smiled, a troublemaker’s gleam in his eye as he stepped closer to her. Close enough for Sandy to smell his shampoo or his cologne—something spicy and clean. Expensive. “You going to tell me your name?” he’d asked.

“Not yet,” Sandy had said, pushing herself up. Because she needed to get home before Jenna’s texts took their usual dark turn. And Sandy had known better than to want this kid, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t leave him wanting more. “But thanks for the cigarette.”

Now Sandy looked around Jenna’s empty bedroom, then went back out to the living room. She thought about texting Jenna a WTF about the rent. But Jenna would never come home if she thought she was in trouble. Helloo??? Sandy texted her instead. A second later, the phone vibrated in her hand. “About fucking time,” she muttered.

But the text wasn’t from Jenna. It was from Hannah. For the three hundredth fucking time. Sandy wondered if Hannah ever pulled this stalker shit with guys, because it must get her ass blocked immediately. Sandy would have blocked Hannah, too, if she could have. It was too much of a risk, though. Who would Hannah text instead? And what would she tell them when she did?

Are you okay? Hannah’s text read, like pretty much all of the other ones in the past week and a half.

Yeah. I’m good. You don’t have to keep asking.

I’m just worried about you.

Nothing Sandy wrote back would make a difference. They’d been up and down this road a bunch of times. No matter what Sandy said, Hannah would send another text in a couple hours, asking the exact same thing. And it would go on and on and on until—what? Because there had to be an end to a thing like this. But as much as Sandy wanted Hannah’s texts to stop, she was afraid of what it would mean once they did.

???? Sandy wrote to Jenna again, ignoring Hannah. If Jenna was passed out somewhere, sleeping it off, there was a chance that the noise from another text might wake her ????????? Hello???

Sandy looked around the filthy apartment. Their best option would be to walk out the door. Leave all their shit behind like the garbage it was. Except if they didn’t have the money for rent, they sure as hell wouldn’t have the money for new just-as-shitty shit. Wherever they went, they’d have to find new jobs, and that could take time.

That would be Jenna’s best argument for staying in Ridgedale—and she would try to keep them there, for sure—that they both already had decent jobs. That wouldn’t be why she really wanted to stay, but it was a much better story than the truth.

Where are you? Sandy typed to Jenna one last time.

She waited a minute more. Still nothing. Then she tried to call. An actual phone call was the official “911 I need you to save my ass now.” Jenna’s phone rang four times before going to voicemail. It was on, at least. That was something. And there was Jenna’s smoky drawl on the greeting, the one she meant to be sexy. And it was. “I’m not here. You know what to do. Bye-bye.”

“Where the hell are you? I’ve sent a million texts,” Sandy said, trying to sound more worried than pissed off. “I need to talk to you. It’s kind of— No, it is. It’s an emergency. Call me back as soon as you can. Okay, Mom?”

The word “mom” felt swollen in Sandy’s mouth and made of something hard. Her lips had to stretch to fit around it. It had been so long since she’d called Jenna that, longer still since it had meant anything. It was a shot in the dark, a grab at something totally out of reach. But there had to be a chance it would land. That it would settle inside Jenna and wake up some long-dead thing. That it would make her pick up the goddamn phone.

But what if it didn’t? Sandy shook her head, tried to push away the thought. In her world, what-ifs were never fucking helpful. She had to focus. She had to get her stash of money and get the hell out of there and try to find Jenna. That was the only option. Because as much as she might like to pretend she’d leave town without her, Sandy couldn’t. She’d never leave Jenna behind.

Sandy knelt on the couch and reached around the back, sliding her hand into the gap where she kept the thin box. She stretched farther when she didn’t feel it. Her heart sped up as she kept rooting around. It had been a few days since she’d checked, but it had to be back there. Where else would it be?

Finally, Sandy’s nails scratched against the cardboard. The box had gotten wedged farther away, that was all. But as soon as she yanked it out and reached in she could tell something was wrong. The envelope inside was too thin. Sandy’s hands were trembling as she pulled out a short stack of one-dollar bills. She fanned them out: twenty-six in all.

Nine hundred and seventy-four dollars less than there was supposed to be.

MOLLY

MARCH 5, 2013

Dr. Zomer. Sounds like a cross between a serial killer and an antidepressant. I’m glad she waited to bring up journaling, because I was barely on board with therapy to begin with. But that’s not because of her. I like Dr. Zomer, with her huge brown eyes and warm, wrinkly face. She’s nice and I can tell she wants to help.

But wait. I’m not supposed to be writing about Dr. Zomer in here. I’m supposed to be writing about me.

I think it makes Justin happy that I’m seeing Dr. Zomer. Just this morning he said that I seem more like myself. But sometimes I wonder if that person exists anymore.

Look, now I’m writing about Justin. Me. Me. Me.

Oh yeah, I didn’t cry today! I never let myself cry in front of Ella—wait, that’s such a lie. Why am I bothering to lie HERE? No one’s going to read this.

For WEEKS after I lost the baby, I cried my face off right in front of Ella. Cried so much, I’m surprised she didn’t wash away in a river of my selfish tears. But after Justin went back to work, I did keep my crying contained to when Ella was in day care, from nine to five. And then today, not a single tear.

Until right now. Because now I’m getting teary because I feel guilty that I didn’t cry. God, sometimes I really do hate myself.

Well, look at that, Dr. Zomer. A whole page filled that you’ll never read—no one will, so I don’t understand the point. But it’s filled all the same. Because that’s what you asked me to do. And I’m trying to do the right thing here. I’m trying as hard as I can.

Molly

After fifteen minutes of erratic driving and careful square breathing, I reached the outskirts of Ridgedale and the lovely stretch of shops that included the Ridgedale Reader offices. The parking lot was nearly empty as I pulled in, the stores—the Knit Wit knitting shop, Ridgedale Antiques, and the Peter Naftali Gallery—starting to open for the day. I was parking when my phone buzzed with a text.