He smiles. "I went to the store and demanded my money back."

"Did he give it to you?"

"No," he says. "He gave me something else instead."

"What?"

"A job."

I hesitate as those words sink in. "And you've worked for him ever since?"

He stares at me, and I can see the door closing, shutting me out. He doesn't answer, but his lack of denial is all I really need. His silence rings as confirmation. He looks away after a moment, standing up. "If you're worried about your mother, Karissa, go check on her."

"I can't really afford—"

He cuts me off with a sharp laugh of disbelief. "You're mistaken, sweetheart. What's mine is yours."

He always makes everything sound so easy, so cut and dry, black and white, when the world is too messy to be categorized so simply.

"Besides, you don't need any money to go check on your mother," he says. "I'll drive you."

My eyes widen. "You will?"

"Yes," he says. "Put on some clothes and we'll go."

Night has fallen by the time we make it to Watertown. I'm half asleep in the passenger seat after the five-and-a-half hour ride, the only thing keeping me awake my worry.

And the fact that Naz really has no idea where we're going.

I didn't realize it, until he set out on the road north, that all I ever told him was that it was an hour outside of Syracuse.

Watertown seems dead at even such an early hour, only a few cars out and about, most places closed for the night. I give Naz directions to the flower shop, not surprised when we pull up in front of it and the place is dark. I know she's not there, her car nowhere around. It's too dark for me to see anything, to tell if she's even been here recently.

I sigh, fidgeting with my seatbelt. "The house is in Dexter. It's a few miles outside of town."

I give him directions, and he sets out on the road with no complaint, quiet as he follows the road out of town. We navigate the back roads in the darkness, my stomach dropping when we pull down the path leading to the house.

Her car isn't here, either.

The house is dark.

He parks the Mercedes out front near the shabby porch and cuts the engine. I make no move to get out. She isn't anywhere around. I'm no closer to answers than I was hours ago in Brooklyn. "She's not here."

"You're sure?"

"Positive."

"Come on," Naz says. "Let's have a look anyway."

I don't argue, getting out of the car and following him onto the porch. He pauses and knocks on the door, and although it's silly, because I've already told him she wasn't here, I'm touched by the respect that shows.

He waits, knocking until I grow impatient, pushing past him and reaching for the knob. I think it's senseless, considering she keeps a dozen locks on her door, so I'm astonished when the knob turns smoothly.

The door creeks as it opens, the sound running through me, turning my worry into fear. She wouldn't leave her door unlocked like this, not intentionally, not unless she had no other choice. My heart is pounding hard, thumping painfully in my chest, and blurring my vision. Bile burns my throat that I swallow back as I whisper, "Something's not right."

In fact, it's terribly, terribly wrong.

Naz says nothing, stepping past me into the house. He strolls down the hallway in front of me, his footsteps heavy against the old wood. I follow him, flicking on lights as I go to get a better look. Everything seems in place, exactly as I recall it last time I was here. There's no sign of a struggle, no sign of any sort of foul play, and although that should ease my concern, it does little to help me.

It's like she vanished into thin air.

"Killer?" I call out, wondering if he's around anywhere. "Killer!"

Naz's footsteps stop abruptly as he turns to me. "Kill who?"

"It's our dog… Killer."

"Ah." He glances around. "Looks like the dog's gone, too."

I check the other rooms, eventually making it to my mother's bedroom, tensing when I open the door and finding the first sign of disarray. Things are strewn around, drawers left open and clothing torn from hangers. Her suitcases—suitcases I've seen stuffed with belongings over a dozen times in my life—aren't on the bottom of her closet, where she always kept them stored.

She's gone.

And she left in a hurry.

"She ran."

I turn to Naz in the doorway when he speaks. "What?"

"It looks like she ran out of here," he says. "Like she was running from something."

"Or someone," I say, shaking my head.

"Why do you say that?"

"She's been running my entire life, from someone, or to someone… I don't know. It's like she's chasing a ghost."

"Or a ghost is chasing her."

"Yeah," I whisper. "Guess it caught up to her again."

I stroll through the room, looking through drawers, rifling through the things she left behind as Naz walks out. Down the hallway, I hear the answering machine click on as Naz presses the button to listen to the messages. My voice echoes through the house, message after message, growing more worried with each one.

I pull open the top drawer of her dresser. It's mostly empty, but some stray things remain. I sort through it, finding a Polaroid picture, and pick it up. It's old and faded, a much younger version of my mother that looks startlingly like the woman I see when I look in a mirror.