Liberty vanishes into the corridor and I can hear the faint click of the bathroom door down the hall. I sit with my thoughts for a while until the silence becomes tense that I pick up the TV remote and put it on, in the hope that it'll help. It doesn't. Not really. Not in the way I'd hoped it would. I feel sick and it's not from the nauseating dizziness that made me drop less than an hour ago. I feel sick because I didn't expect Liberty to react that way. I must have severely misread the room. I squeeze my eyes shut and rub my palms over the lids, stupid, stupid.

The blanket, half thrown over my lap, the rest sprawled on the rug and my left foot makes me feel hot. I throw it off to the side and look up at the screen I forgot I'd switched on. It's some talk show. I've seen the host many times but not enough to recall his name immediately. Jimmy something? John. No, almost certain it's a Jimmy. There's five of them doing television, right?

I shake my head and I realize I've been mumbling to myself. With a cautious glance at the empty doorway, I sigh and steer my attention back at Jimmy what's-his-name. The volume is at zero and so I mindlessly watch mouths move. The camera moves from one person to the other. For a second, I almost miss it. Her. I almost miss her.

Tight black skirt. Pointy heels. Blonde hair. She'd pass for anyone except I know that face anywhere. It's like seeing someone in slow motion at a store. It could just be me. Or maybe it really is who I think it is.

Stewart's wife. Ex-wife. Whatever.

I glass over the others in the frame, trying to figure out why I'm seeing her on the TV right now. And then it strikes me. Like a hundred hot coals pumped on my back. The same logo from the black envelope. Silhouette of a stag. There's no mistaking the sign of the devil. The show has the logo plastered on the screens behind them, sitting idly before vanishing once more into a frenzy of abstract patterns that had been there before.

The remote. My hands turn to goop as I hit the volume bar repeatedly. Their words don't make sense. I can't make sense of it so I google it instead. A dark cloud like shadow settles behind me, carefully squeezing me as I try and navigate their website. How had I not looked into this earlier. One of the pictures is a match. It's so in your face, the page, the tv show, all of it. It makes my stomach churn. Had it always been this obvious? I get up, the room moves with me and I steady myself with the arm rest. I have to tell Liberty.

I don't know what any of this means for us. Except that my suspicions of foul play have been confirmed. That has to count for something right? That has to be worth something.

I make it to the bathroom, yet the door is partially ajar.

"Liberty?" I ask cautiously.

There's no reply.

Before checking upstairs, my gut tells me she's not there. She can't be there because, why would she? No. I hear a faint sound of a door closing. I'm already moving towards the front door. In slow motion, I see a dark object, past the glass, moving away from the house. I pull the door open and watch a car exit the street. In my gut, I know Liberty is in that car. I stand still, fixed like stone by the door.

Yet, when mom comes down to ask me what happened, I walk past her and head upstairs to search the house. Just in case she's still here. Just in case it's all happening inside my head.

"Omar?" I hear her call my name just as I'm ready to come back down.

My ankle gives way and I trip over my flimsy foot, hitting my head on the floor. The rug dampens the impact yet there is a deep searing pain in my stomach. I clench my stomach with my hand and all of a sudden, I have this relentless urge to puke on the rug. 

"Omar?" she says as she walks upstairs, seconds before my lights turn out.