I leap off the bus and dash down the street toward the address memorized in my head. It’s like déjà vu, except the sun is lower and the neighborhood is nicer and there are tears in my eyes that won’t fall, not yet, because I refuse to believe Zoe’s already dead.
It took me two different buses to get to the area where Zoe’s girlfriend lives. I check my watch as I near the boxy, gray apartment building—5:46 p.m., and the police report said she died sometime between four thirty and six. I might still have time.
I circle the building until I find the right unit, then stand in front of the door listening, afraid to do anything else. I don’t want to see what’s inside, because a part of me already knows what I’ll find.
Finally, I knock. No answer.
I wait a moment and then knock again, harde
