4 PM Thursday, a manila envelope

I’m still sitting in front of the TV. Steph went to work. My phone is next to me. My computer is on my lap.

A few people have driven by Johnson’s house and texted that the cops are still outside. Josh and I have been warned—if we’re seen anywhere near his house, we’ll be charged with obstruction of justice.

Slow, heavy footsteps come down the stairs. Mom’s breathing is labored, panting. “This came for you.” She hands me a manila envelope. Pats my arm. Then turns to go back upstairs. Doesn’t ask me how I’m doing. Doesn’t ask what’s been happening with the investigation.

“That’s all?” I say, incredulous.

She turns around. “What?”

“You could ask me how I am.” Anger whistles through me. “It’s a normal mom thing to do, you know. To check in on your kid when her boyfriend’s gone missing. When her boyfriend might be dead. When his killer is being interrogated.”

She runs her hand through her greasy hair. “I’m sorry. I never know what to say to you.”

“You could try.”

“It’s just, I’ve been real tired lately. I don’t know. My muscles have been aching me and—”

I jump up. My teeth are clenched. “I. Don’t. Care.” My anger flings itself at her. “For once,” I yell, “this isn’t about you. I’m the one who’s going through a rough time. It’s my boyfriend who’s gone missing.”

She hobbles backward. “I—I know that.”

“You’ve done nothing, not one little thing to help me find Chris. You don’t even make me meals. I’m not eating, Mom. Do you even care?”

She gulps. “I do care.”

“It’s so shitty,” I cry. “I help you all the time. I do everything.” I wave my arm in front of me. She flinches. Like she thinks I’m going to hit her. Doesn’t she know I would never? “You can’t even clean your own stuff,” I sob, even though it’s not about the mess anymore. “If I put it upstairs, you put it down here. I have to live in this rat’s nest and the thing is, I can’t leave, because I got to pay for groceries and help with the mortgage.”

“You’re right,” she says. “I’m sorry, sweetie.” Her mouth is quivering, and for real, she does look sorry, but I’m too mad.

“Sorry’s not good enough,” I say. “Just clean your shit up.”

Without saying another thing, she turns and shuffles out of the room. I feel like crap. Man, she can’t help herself. Why do I have to attack the people who love me?

I look down at the priority mail envelope.

My heart drums. Could it be something from you? A final note?

Please, no.

I stroke the smooth envelope, then rip it open with the tab. I reach inside and pull out another envelope. I look closer. It’s from the State Department. It’s my friggin passport. Oh my gosh. I nearly had a heart attack. You’d think they’d mark in big letters, PASSPORT, and make you sign for it, but they don’t. So, now I’m ready for this trip that we’re supposed to go on starting next week. Passport. Check. Boyfriend. No check.

I wouldn’t have applied for a passport if it weren’t for you.

The truth is I’m not a wild girl. I’m afraid of so many things. I’m afraid of college. I’m afraid of not making it in a big city. I’m afraid of trying to do something amazing and failing. But I’m even more afraid of not trying and being stuck in this crummy-ass town. I’m afraid I’ll marry some loser and have babies. I’m afraid of being unimportant, not just to you, but to everyone else, to the whole goddamn world, just living and dying, and making no kind of difference.

The day after I promised you in front of the campfire, I went to the post office with my two passport photos and my ID and I sent the application off. And then I started to look at colleges. I never would have done that either if you hadn’t made it seem possible. I wouldn’t have thought about how I love nature and I want to conserve it and maybe I should go to school for that. Because of you, I started thinking I could make a difference.

Josh texts: I talked to McFerson

Next text: He says Johnson didn’t do anything

No. Oh my god. Panic sweeps through me. I write: What the fuck?

Josh: Johnson says he just found the phone

More typing and then, finally: Detective says they need more evidence to charge him, it won’t stand up in court

Me: That’s bullshit

Josh: Guess he got a big lawyer

Rage heats my eyeballs. I want to throw things. I want to scream. I want to grab a knife and stab and stab and stab. It’s scares me, how crazy I feel inside.

Is Johnson really going to get away with this?

I reach for the first thing I can grab. That damn rabbit bottle, now on the coffee table. And I fling it hard against the wall. It’s plastic, so it bounces and falls down into a new random pile of junk. It’s not satisfying. I reach down and grab a big pile of laundry and cords and fling it against the wall. Grab more things. Throw them across the room. More shit. The piles transform into lumps. The pathways disappear.

Finally, I’m so exhausted, I collapse on the sofa. This can’t be happening.