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Subconsciously, I bring my hand to my heart and trace the 'L' through my t-shirt. I realize what I'm doing when her eyes fall in that same spot, her lip turning up in disgust.

"I'll be home before dinner. I'll text you," she says, taking her coffee and leaving through the garage door.

I pour a cup for myself. I have plans today, but they don't involve shopping.

It's only nine in the morning. The drive is around five and a half hours, but if I don't stay for long, I could be back by ten like I'm supposed to. It'll be a long day, but when was the last time I drove a car on the freeway with the windows down and music blaring from the speakers?

Who am I kidding? I know exactly when it was; it feels like a lifetime ago. Itwasa lifetime ago.

Before all of this, the idea of spending so much time in a car in one day would have made me sick. After my extended holiday at Rancho San Flores, it sounds invigorating. I throw on a pair of jean shorts and a bra under my t-shirt, grab the money my mom told me to spend on an interview outfit, and then find my keys and head to the car.

It's parked just around the corner like she said it would be. I perk up a little when I see it—a small piece of me, something that still feels entirely mine, even if I don't feel entirely like myself. I climb into the grey Toyota, turn the key in the ignition, and connect my phone to the car's Bluetooth. A song I've never heard before by an artist I used to love fills the vehicle. It's catchy; I wonder what else I've missed over the past three months.

I wonder what I'd do if his voice suddenly echoed through the car. But, of course, I know it won't happen. I'm not sure if it's a comfort or not.

It's eighty-five degrees, but still, I roll down the windows just to feel the wind in my hair. Just to feelsomething.

It's around three-thirty and 110 degrees when I park in the cul-de-sac near the bungalow in Glendale. It's definitely the right house—it's the same porch, the same swing. The same chipped yellow paint on the stucco. With the AC up and the music turned down, I've sat here for about ten minutes now.

I'm freaking the fuck out.

I barely survived the past three months, and a big part of that survival was my ability to think of what happened with the people I used to call my family as sort of an alternate reality—a fever dream, something untouchable, unreachable. But if River and Hazel are here, only yards away inside that bungalow, then it was real. And that means Declan and Luca are real, too.

And I'm really a murderer.

I take a deep breath and, with shaky hands, exit the vehicle, my heart in my throat as I cross the empty cul-de-sac and walk up the steps. I feel lightheaded by the time I reach the door and ring the bell.

What if they're not here?

But as soon as I think it, the knob begins to turn, and the door opens just a crack—just enough for whoever's inside to peek out.

"Teagan?" River says. "Is that you?"

I think I'm going to vomit. "Yeah," I say.

She opens the door another foot, then reaches out, grabs me by my arm, and pulls me inside, closing and locking the door again behind me.

"What are you doing here?" she almost whispers. "How did you find us?"

"I—I don't know," I tell her. "I just…I saw Hazel on TV, and then I saw this video online, and…I'm sorry. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I miss you."

She pulls me into a hug, and I bury my head into her now-dark hair, closing my eyes and inhaling.

Lavender and honey. Just like before.

"I missed you, too," she says.

"We're not." I look up and see Hazel standing in the living room. Her formerly pink hair is also brown with thick bangs across her forehead, and she's wearing glasses. It's a good disguise…for anyone who doesn't know the exact curve of her chin or that she has two freckles exactly two inches apart under her right collarbone. As suspected, the blonde hair from the interview must have been a wig. "We're not okay. At all."

"Hi, Hazel," I say weakly.

"Come sit down, Teagan," River says. She looks at Hazel before adding, "Just for a few minutes."

"Yeah, I can't stay long anyway. I have a fucking curfew."

"Yeah?" Hazel says, gesturing toward her ankle monitor. "Us, too."

"It's not Teagan's fault," River says. "She's a victim, too."