Emily's wallet sits on my nightstand. Amidst the chaos, I'd forgotten to give it to the police. I did, however, fill out a witness statement, my fingers trembling as I added my signature at the bottom of the page. All that blood. It stuck to my hair, my clothes. I could taste it on my lips in the ambulance where the EMTs wiped me down and treated me for shock.

I release a shaky sigh and turn over in bed, bundling the covers around my head. It happened a week ago and I've hardly been able to sleep since. The scene keeps replaying in my mind. I was chasing the woman down sidewalk. She was fine moments before. I never saw anyone attack her, but there were a lot of people. Maybe someone jabbed a knife at her as they were walking by. Only who would do something like that? Could it be a psycho who enjoys murdering people at random? Like that one unsolved case in Japan where the killer spiked vending machine sodas with herbicide...

Or was it somebody she knew? Or an accident? A piece of metal that flew off a passing car, striking her in the neck, and the police never found it at the scene?

No, that's too far-fetched. I should stop obsessing over it. I already told the police everything I know. Including the argument I eavesdropped on between Emily and Nolan. I have no idea if he's been interviewed yet or not. Or what their little tiff was about in the first place. She seemed pissed. And he'd threatened her to stay away. There's obviously more to the story here. But it's not your mystery to solve. You have your own problems.

I reach for my laptop, hellbent on applying to more jobs. I'll broaden my search if have to. Waiting tables doesn't pay great, but at a fancy enough establishment, the tips just might cover my rent. I pause and side-eye the wallet sitting on my nightstand. Before I know it, it's in my lap and I've plucked out the dead woman's ID.

Emily Hayes, I type into the Google search bar. I swear her name sounds so familiar to me. My pulse quickens when a photograph of the woman pops up on my screen, and I break into a cold sweat, remembering her vacant eyes staring up at me. I swallow and click on the link of her obituary. It is with a heavy heart, we announce the passing of Emily Abigail Hayes at the age of 26. The funeral service was held today. I don't know why I feel guilty. There was nothing I could have done, no way to save her.

I scroll down the page and order her family flowers, donating the last twenty bucks I have in my bank account to the charity they've linked below. It does nothing to change how horrible I feel and it doesn't erase what happened from my memory. I study the ID and the address printed across it. She lived on Birch Street. Not far from here, actually. I return to Google and paste her parents' names into the search bar. "Huh," I say once I realize they lived at the same address. "The Birch Street Bed & Breakfast."

"Knock, knock." Mom throws open my door before I can answer. She's in a pink jumpsuit, her bleached hair pulled into a topknot that wobbles around on her head. I quickly hide Emily's wallet as she sets a tray of food at the end of my bed. "How are you feeling, sweetheart?" she asks, checking my temperature with the palm of her hand and then her lip gloss coated lips.

I wipe the lip gloss from my forehead. "I'm not sick," I remind her, angling my screen away.

She blinks at me, pointing a faux French nail at my laptop. "Honey, that's not porn, is it?"

"What? No!"

"If it's porn, just know, your father's home, and it would be a lot less awkward for the three of us if you did it when you're alone." She leans in closer, lowering her voice. "I have to run to the bank in the morning and your father's going to be at work..."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "It's not porn!"

Mom puts up her hands. "Okay, I'm only saying." She pinches my cheek, aggressive enough that I wince. "You're such a cutie, I swear. I whipped you up your favorite. Grilled cheese and homemade tomato soup because...you know...everything that happened." Her voice drops into a whisper. "The murder."

"I know what you meant, Mom," I sigh. "But don't worry. I'm fine. It's already forgotton."

"Already forgotten? Vi, the poor girl got her throat sliced open right in front of you!"

"You're not making it any better." I narrow my eyes at her as I take a bite of the grilled cheese. "Mmm, but this sandwich is."

Mom beams at me. "That's good. See? There's nothing a homecooked meal can't fix!" Her smile morphs into a frown as she gestures at the clock. "But Vi, it's 8pm on a Friday night and you're lying in bed like a grandma. Don't you want to get dolled up and hit the club?"

I blow on my tomato soup to cool it down. "I've never hit the club in my entire life nor do I have the desire to."

"Why don't you call your friend, Alex?"

"She's in the Bahamas with her boyfriend, remember?"

Mom pouts, toying with the zipper of her jumpsuit. "Well, don't you want a boyfriend? You're never going to find him holed up in here."

She has a point.

Mom snaps her fingers at me as if she's suddenly developed an idea. "What about one of those hot dating apps you young people use? Like...Sinder?"

I raise a brow. "Do you mean Tinder?"

She claps her hands together, bouncing in place like a quarterback before a play. "Yes, that's it! What about that? You got one of those?"

"Sweetheart!" Dad bursts into the room, his bald head shiny beneath the skylights.

Oh, my God. Would somebody please save me? I suppress the urge to groan. I love my parents, but sometimes I need space. Times like this make me even more desperate to find and fund my own apartment.

"How are you feeling? Your mother told me you're traumatized."

My grilled cheese plonks into my tomato soup. "I am not."

Mom nods, gripping Dad's arm. "She is. You are. You're traumatized."

"What is this? Doctor Phil?" I grunt as Dad strangles me into a bear hug and covers my face in kisses. I have to fight him off me. "Dad, come on. Please. Watch the soup! I told you guys. I'm fine. I'd appreciate some privacy, okay?"

"Sweetheart, what did I tell you about leaving your window open?" Dad says as he slams my blinds shut. "This guy can see right inside your bedroom and you know he rubs me the wrong way."

I press my lips together. If he only knew I'd been fantasizing about Nolan rubbing me the right way...

"There's something about that guy. I don't know what it is. He's too perfect. Guys like that are always hiding something." Dad shakes his head. Then he turns around to look at me. "Hey, how's the job search going?"

I polish off my sandwich, avoiding eye contact. "It's not going."

Dad crosses his hairy arms across his chest. "That bad, huh?"

Mom pouts, patting my leg encouragingly, dangerously close to the wallet I've hidden beneath the covers. "Aw, that's too bad, honey. They don't know what they're missing!"

"Thanks, Mom."

Dad shrugs, furrowing his dark brows. "Well, I might know a certain plumber who's still got a spot open for you."

"Yeah, about that." I set the soup aside and sit up straighter. "I want the job, and I can start as soon as tomorrow." I've already decided to broaden my job search, and it would be flat stupid not to accept one just because my dad was the one offering it to me.

I can tell by the way Dad's grinning at me that he's pleased. He points a pudgy finger in my direction. "You're hired, baby! Meet me downstairs at 5am and we'll get plunging!"

I force a smile. "Great." I catch him before he can leave. "And Dad? Thank you. I mean it."

"Of course, sweetheart."

Once my parents are gone, I take the wallet out from under the covers and stare at the address again. Birch Street. Well, I know where I'm going after work tomorrow...