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Carrie didn’t answer her front doorbell.

In the quiet of the passing minutes, she heard murmuring voices on her doorstep. Then, after a long moment, car doors slammed and an engine started.

Checking the monitor of her home security system, she saw the vehicle pulling away, a van from a Houston TV station.

Following the execution, she’d received a stream of messages and calls from news media. Some showed up at her house. It had been several days now, and thankfully the flow had ebbed. The Houston crew was the only one to come to her door today.

Carrie had declined all earlier requests, including those from CNN, the New York Times and Dateline . She couldn’t bring herself to talk about the case.

At times, to ease herself, she thought of the most recent photos from Pearl, and her postcard asking Carrie: How’s everybody? It hurt Carrie to keep the truth from Pearl. Sooner or later, she’d learn what had happened. For now, not wanting to spoil her aunt’s cruise, Carrie was reluctant to tell her how she was still coming to grips with the aftereffects of Hyde’s execution. Vern had stressed that it was the end. But for Carrie, it felt like a be ginning, like something indefinable had opened, and she wished she could talk about it with Pearl.

It didn’t feel like something she could bring up with Luke—as much as he appeared to have resumed his routine, Carrie still felt he was withdrawn, distant. A few times at dinner she’d had to repeat herself to pull him back into the conversation.

And she felt a similar distance from her father. Visiting with him, she sensed that a calm had come over him. A finality. Is it acceptance of his own mortality? Whenever she asked him if his condition was causing him discomfort, he’d give her the same answer: No pain, darlin’ .

Carrie would smile, watching him play with Emily. But in her heart, she wasn’t sure she believed him. She wasn’t sure of anything anymore. Today, during a video call with clients, she’d lost track. People had to go over subjects more than once because she couldn’t focus.

Nights were the worst.

And tonight was no different.

Again, sleep was a fugitive.

She didn’t want to take sleeping pills in case it interfered with her ability to hear Emily. Not wanting to wake Luke beside her, she got her book light and resumed reading Les Misérables until she grew drowsy. Placing the novel on her night table, she settled into sleep, but she was soon haunted with thoughts of Hyde.

The man who killed Jenna Dupree, Abby and Erin.

The man who tried to kill me.

He confessed to everything.

I should remember him.

I should remember what happened in the woods.

In her torpid state between consciousness and sleep, Carrie heard a voice deep inside her. Far off but strong, pressing her to keep casting back, keep trying to remember, because it was the only way she could resolve the questions that tormented her.

She recalled being angry with Abby and Erin in the cafeteria. But why did we go into the woods? Where was Hyde? What happened? She remembered running for her life…falling into the cold water…choking, flailing in the current…struggling to breathe…waking…

…in the darkness of her bedroom.

The blue illuminated digits of her clock glowed: 3:15 a.m. She turned to nestle against Luke, but there was nothing.

His side of the bed was empty.

He was gone.

No light in the bathroom.

He wasn’t working.

Carrie slipped from bed and went to Emily’s room.

The baby was gone.