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I end up renting a Corolla.

It costs more than I wanted to spend, but it won’t be too bad if I can return the car before the end of the day, which I should be able to. Anyway, it’s all on my credit card, and that bill isn’t coming for two more weeks. That’s a problem for Future Blake.

It’s after lunch by the time I manage to get on the road. There’s more traffic than I expected, but I go as fast as I dare on the highway. I keep an eye on the GPS on my phone, my heart speeding up with every mile behind me.

It’s about 3:30 by the time I arrive in the town of Telmont. As expected, it’s a quiet town with small streets and lots of tiny houses with picket fences. It reminds me of the little town outside Cleveland where I lived with my family growing up. I couldn’t wait to get out of there and do something with my life, but now I feel a jab of nostalgia. It wouldn’t have been so bad living in a place like this as an adult, and I get the feeling Krista would like it too.

Maybe after this is all over, Krista and I can move out of the city. Start over again somewhere new, where the cost of living isn’t quite so insane. That is, provided I can win her back.

That’s why I’m here. To figure out what Whitney’s deal is so I can get Krista on my side again.

And also to figure out whose fingers are in my kitchen.

The GPS directs me to a pale yellow house with a fence partially encircling the front lawn. It’s quaint—the sort of house any child would be happy to grow up in, with a bunch of siblings and maybe a dog or two. It’s hard to imagine someone growing up in a house like this turning out like Whitney.

I park on the curb near the house. It takes me a few minutes to psych myself up, but then I get out of the car and walk up to the front door. The door is painted a brighter shade of yellow than the rest of the house—too bright. It’s almost hard to look at.

I say a little prayer, then press my finger against the doorbell. And I wait.

After a minute, it’s clear nobody is coming. I look around, checking to see if anybody is watching, and then I peer through the window next to the front door. The house looks dark inside. Nobody is home.

I walk back down the walkway to where the mailbox is perched. I take one more glance around, and then I open the mailbox. I check the first letter on the pile, noting that it is made out to Jeannette Cross.

That means I’m at the right house. This is where Whitney Cross grew up, and this is where her parents still live.

Well, it took me two hours to drive here, so I’m not leaving without talking to someone. Unless they took a trip somewhere, I’m guessing they’ll be back before the evening.

So I return to my rental car to wait.

I lean back in the seat, closing my eyes for a moment. I’m so damn tired, but there’s no chance I’ll be able to sleep. That would be impossible, especially since every time I close my eyes, I see those three fingers with the pink nail polish in the brown paper bag. Who do those fingers belong to? It’s haunting me.

And then a thought hits me that sends a chill down my spine.

Could the fingers belong to Krista?

No, they couldn’t possibly. I saw her this morning; then I went home and found the fingers in the kitchen. Yes, I walked home and wasn’t rushing, but there’s no way Whitney could have killed Krista, cut off her fingers, and then stuffed them in the kitchen. It’s not physically possible.

Is it?

No, no, no. It can’t be. The fingers were… I mean, I’m pretty sure they were decomposing. So even if Whitney pulled off the impossible, those couldn’t have been Krista’s fingers. Although it’s not like I got a good look at them. All I saw clearly was the nail polish, which happened to be the same cotton candy pink shade Krista was wearing this morning when I watched her scoop those cookies off the tray.

I grab my phone with shaking fingers and tap out a text message to Krista:

Are you OK?

She doesn’t have to answer me. She doesn’t have to do anything except look at the message so I can see that little “read” denotation.

But it doesn’t appear. The message doesn’t even say that it was delivered.

Okay, I’m being paranoid. Yes, I’m pretty sure those were women’s fingers, and yes, the nail polish was the same shade Krista was wearing, but I still don’t see how it’s possible they could belong to her. Krista is fine. I saw her just this morning. She’s fine .

And if she’s not, I will kill Whitney with my bare hands.