October 20

15 Days Before the Storm

 

 

Everyone thinks I killed my husband.

Though I met Nick living in Whitehorse, he was born and raised north of the city in the village of Red Fox Lake—population just under seven hundred, so everyone knew him. His parents had moved there from northern Vancouver before his birth, so there was likely a time when they’d been considered outsiders too, but to hear locals talk about Nick, one would think the Sparrows had been there for generations.

He and I moved to Red Fox Lake two years earlier because rent was only slightly less ridiculous than Whitehorse, and Nick had the idea to build a mostly self-sustainable house on land he’d invested his inheritance in after his parents died a decade ago. It was an idea I’d supported, not only because of his infectious excitement, but because I knew he was capable of it. Nick had worked as a contractor in Whitehorse when I met him, with sculpting and woodworking a hobby he excelled at, so I knew it wasn’t something he was diving into cluelessly. Red Fox Lake, of course, had welcomed him back with open arms, and by extension me, even if they were a little cautious of his new bride and a baby that called him Dada but didn’t really look like him.

I’ve always been reserved, though I’d say it was experience rather than nature. As small as Whitehorse was in comparison to Toronto, I still enjoyed the anonymity; that was impossible in Red Fox Lake. To my face, Imogen Sharp is accepted as Sweet Nicky Sparrow’s Wife; when I turn my back, their looks grow chilly.

That’s only gotten worse since he’s been missing. The chill in their reception of me and my daughter dropped several degrees colder and mixed with suspicion.

No trace of Nick has ever been found. His keys were still in the car. His phone could not be tracked—at first it might’ve been out of range, but after a while the battery was likely dead. I’d had no choice but to contact the police and turned over my own phone for review to the RCMP—always suspect the spouse, of course—but it was returned and there were no leads.

Folks vanish all over the country, but something about it feels particularly daunting in the north. The remoteness and sense of isolation contributes to that feeling, I imagine. Indigenous people, in particular, vanish in a system that is not invested in finding them, but—from my perspective as his wife—I can say the police here did look for Nick, just as the almost entirely white village did. Officers from all the local detachments were involved and the investigation went on for months. In fact every able-bodied local came out after the storm to search the woods around the property, then again after the late-spring thaw.

Even though his story was perhaps not unique out here, he was beloved. Therefore, to the people of Red Fox Lake, his outsider wife must be at fault.

I weathered the winter in the village, braced and waiting every minute of every day. Waiting to hear some trace had been found, waiting to hear of any rumours that might point us in the right direction. Two Whitehorse RCMP officers originally grew up in the village and visited their families often—I knew at some point I’d hear word if there was anything to tell.

Almost a year to the date has passed, however, and anyone you talk to will tell you I’m the one responsible.

Janelle has Nadia for a playdate with her boys, giving me time to run errands, but mostly I miss my daughter and wish I was home. The prices in Red Fox Lake’s General Mart are painfully high, but the cost of gas to drive to Whitehorse’s Walmart makes it come out about even.

Years ago if you’d told me I’d willingly include Walmart among my shopping, I would never have believed you, but being up north rapidly brings a whole other perspective and acceptance. Options are few, in many regards.

I carry a basket around the narrow dimly lit aisles and grab only what we completely need right now; many items I pass by knowing I can save a little and pick it up later when I do a Whitehorse trip. The money situation has not been great; there’s the loss of income with Nick missing, most of our savings sunk into the house—still unfinished—and the ever-increasing cost of living out here. At least most of the supplies we needed for the house were ordered and paid for; now it’s just a matter of paying people to finish it as I haven’t the skill—or time, with work and a four-year-old—to do so myself. Nadia and I moved in a month ago so I didn’t have to keep sinking money into renting an apartment, but the house isn’t finished and the time to complete it is running out.

I feel trapped, that creepy crawling feeling under my skin urging me to cut my losses and run. Sell the land, start over.

All my savings are gone, though, and I can’t collect the life insurance on Nick until he’s confirmed to no longer be alive, of course. Presumption of Death Act allows next of kin to apply to have a missing person declared dead, but that might send tongues wagging even more—might raise too many suspicions and have folks looking a little more closely at me.

So I wait. Watch my diminishing bank account, try to finish the house, and hope one way or the other—somehow—Nick will be found. The anniversary of his disappearance is ticking closer and closer—it seems to lend weight to the eyes on me in Red Fox Lake.

I avoid those eyes—in this case, a single other patron in the General Mart who I recognize but can’t name. Some older white man in a heavy camo jacket staked out in the tiny frozen section. Guess I’m not grabbing those mixed veggies on sale.

Instead I move swiftly down the cramped aisles for the last few items. Nadia loves grocery shopping—pointing out what she wants, now using full sentences to natter on about lunch and snacks for the week, sitting carefully in the cart. But there’s no room for a cart in the General Mart, and it means shopping takes twice as long if she’s trailing me, so I’m glad it’s just me. I move swiftly, wishing I’d written down a proper list, but I never do—I make a mental list at home and then promptly forget half of it the moment I step in the store. I’ll kick myself for what I missed when I get home later.

Nick always had a list. I don’t think it was for him, either, since I was often the one doing the shopping—he wrote them for me because he knew I forgot. You read a lot about the emotional labour of keeping a house together falling on women, but it had been pretty evenly distributed with us. We saw each other’s blindspots.

I miss him.

Dally Carleton is working the General Mart’s single cash register. She’s co-owner and has worked here probably longer than I’ve been alive. She’s got a pinched wrinkled white face like one of those dehydrated apple dolls, and I generally manage to get my groceries with a smile and a few words but no actual eye contact.

I would like to meet her gaze with a steady glare of my own, but even though Nick isn’t here anymore, there’s always a follow-up to my first dark instinct that reminds me to “be nice”. Keep the peace for Nick. Be pleasant for Nick. Nick never asked me to, but he didn’t need to. I knew what Red Fox Lake, and its residents, meant to him.

I pass the rack of The Whitehorse Star to the left of the cash counter—come winter, our copies would be delayed a lot of the time, but Red Fox Lake doesn’t have a paper of its own. With spotty WiFi, it’s often the only news we get. I grab a copy automatically even though I likely won’t read it and slide it on the counter ahead of my groceries.

“Hey Immy,” Dally says pleasantly.

I do my usual non-eye-contact smile. “Dally. How’s George?”

“Threw his back out again, can you believe it?”

I’m pretty sure I do not believe it, and strongly suspect a painkiller addiction, but it’s one of those things everyone thinks but don’t say aloud out here. “And Riley?”

Her teen granddaughter lives with them. Nick knew all the family history there but damned if I can recall any of it—he wasn’t one to gossip, and I was usually only idly curious, asking once and then promptly forgetting because I didn’t actually care.

“Think she might make the honour roll this year. Where’s that pretty little girl of yours today?” Dally starts ringing my groceries through as I busy myself with getting my wallet from my purse. Her joints creak with the movement, popping loudly in the otherwise silent store.

“Play date with my friend’s kids in the city.”

“Ah, that must be nice for her. Must be so quiet in that house all the time.”

It’s not gentle concern, it’s a passive aggressive dig. Because the woman who killed her husband is in the house he built all alone, in the Yukon, with a four-year-old. I am irresponsible and have made a litany of bad choices and I shouldn’t be made to forget it.

Maybe the town would have accepted me more if I’d stayed here, on one of the handful of tiny streets that made up Red Fox Lake. If I welcomed the community to help me raise Nadia and acted like I belong here.

It’s a nice fantasy but not true, of course. No one here is prepared to accept me, no matter the hoops I could jump through.

So I don’t comment on the remark but focus on getting the cash from my wallet. One of the few teens in town, Sydney Bolton, comes around from the back where she’d been facing up stock to start bagging my groceries in a large brown paper bag. The need to get out of here is practically vibrating off her and I envision Nadia a dozen years from now just the same, eager to get out of this place, to go to Whitehorse or beyond where there are more options for her. Maybe by then we won’t still be here; I put the thought away and accept my change from Dally.

The grocery bag is awkward—I should’ve brought reusable ones with handles, but that was another of Nick’s reminders that I always forgot. Eventually I’ll have to start watching my own blindspots, but that day is not today. Clearly.

I step outside, purse bumping my hip and grocery bag in my arms. The SUV’s just around the corner in the General Mart’s three-car lot.

“Mrs. Sparrow!” someone calls behind me and initially it doesn’t click because no one calls me that. Even here, in town, no one makes that mistake because although I married, I hadn’t taken Nick’s name. The only Mrs. Sparrow was his mother.

Steps slap the pavement behind me and a chill walks my spine, but I don’t whirl around because the damn groceries are in my arms and I need to get them in the vehicle. I round the corner and see my dark SUV; as I near it, a face takes shape behind me in the vehicle’s windows and it’s clearly someone following me.

“Mrs. Sparrow!” she continues as I unlock the door and set the groceries in the passenger seat.

The door thumps closed behind me and I turn, keys biting into my hand as I squeeze them. That prick of pain helps me focus and evaluate the approaching figure. I’m braced because I don’t recognize her—white with bright rosy cheeks veering toward raw from the wind, and her boots are new. She’s not from here—as in not from the Yukon. Her royal blue coat is new, too, nylon and poofy in a way that suggests it’s not down-filled either.

Nothing good can come from a southerner here calling for me.

There’s a moment of hoping it’s some news about Nick, even though I know that would come from the RCMP and she’s clearly not a cop. I tamp down on that hope before it can flourish and hurt me even more.

“Sharp,” I say.

She stops. She’s got on thin gloves like she’d been expecting autumn from down south rather than Yukon autumn, a phone in one hand and tablet in the other. She glances at the tablet then back at my face and I know she’s got a picture of me, or at least a description.

Probably a description. I don’t allow photos of me other than on my license. My hair is cut in a wavy bob, longer in the front, bleached blonde, and given Red Fox Lake’s small, mostly elderly population I’m likely the only thirtysomething woman here with that description. I also wear glasses, thick tortoiseshell frames like a feminized version of what Buddy Holly wore. I look like a completely different person wearing them, a trick I picked up when I saw a photo of Zooey Deschanel out of her New Girl bangs, glasses, and falsies and didn’t recognize her.

So I’m distinct enough that a description and a location would probably tell her I was Nick’s wife. She looks too green to be a local private investigator and out of place, so I’m guessing some kind of journalist.

A bitter wind kicks up and tosses her curly red hair over her face, which she can’t brush back properly with her hands occupied. “Sorry about that. Mrs. Sharp.”

I wait, arms crossed, leaning against the SUV’s passenger side.

“I’m writing an article about...well, about your husband, and others, who disappeared without a trace. It won’t come out until December, but with the one-year anniversary coming up...”

I have no idea how she’s planning to finish that sentence, like there’s some kind of disconnect. And I don’t plan to ask. “If there’s anything new about the case, the police haven’t shared it with me.”

“I was hoping you’d agree to talk to me a bit about the day he went missing, in your own words, and we can include a plea for any information.”

I have done enough research myself to know that no amount of pleading from me in southern papers is going to find my missing husband up here. If his wallet was gone and if he’d taken the car—maybe. Maybe he’d just left me and disappeared somewhere by choice, maybe he’d driven somewhere and been seen before something happened to him, maybe he’d even been carjacked. But there was no one for miles around our house, no one who could’ve seen him and would now be holding onto that information.

I don’t say that, because even though the moment he didn’t come back that afternoon my brain went to the worst-case scenario and has stayed there ever since, I know that’s not what’s expected of me. A normal woman missing her husband would be eager to talk, eager for hope.

“My daughter will be home soon,” I say without looking at the time. “I do need to get back.”

She pounces. “You’re living in the house he went missing from? Would I be able to see—”

“No.” My voice is harsher than I intend, and I ease back a little when I continue. “I try to keep things private because of my daughter so I don’t want any strangers around the house, any photos of it. I don’t need more people knowing about a single mother in the middle of nowhere.”

“Of course, of course,” she says quickly. “Um, can we arrange to meet somewhere, or...?”

I consider suggesting a spot in Whitehorse. I would need Janelle to take Nadia again, though, and I don’t know what her plans are tomorrow. And put on the spot here, I don’t really want to ask. But offering to take this woman’s number will give her more access to my contact info if I call her, and I would rather get this done with.

Now I check my phone. “I can give you twenty minutes.”

She lights up at that and I’m already dreading it.

 

*

 

There’s no coffee shop in Red Fox Lake. Or a proper restaurant. There is, of course, a bar, and one can get some coffee there and a few basic meals. It’s the most neutral ground I can think of to talk to this woman.

Her name is Jenni Montgomery. I’ll look her up later. She mentions a publication I haven’t heard of—I’ll look that up too—but it sounds based in British Columbia. We sit across from one another in one of two booths the bar offers.

The bar doesn’t have an actual name, just a hand-carved sign that says BAR over the door. She’s looking around a little cautiously, still in her bright blue coat with her hands wrapped around a large white mug of coffee.

Under the yellow glow over our booth and harsh shadows of the bar, I see she’s older than I’d thought outside—late thirties, maybe, a little older than me. Bright-eyed and bubbly, it makes her seem younger. That might be an act, though.

I have a cup of coffee as well, my phone sitting next to me so I can easily check the time. She’s got hers too, ready to record, and she starts taking me through everything that happened that day.

I try to engage, but I’m probably a little monotone. I’ve said it all a million times. I’ve thought it even more times, been over the day from every angle. He literally vanished and there is no new perspective, no sudden epiphany. Nick is gone and I still know nothing.

In addition to recording it on her phone, she’s typing notes onto her tablet. I hope she’s saving it on the machine itself, because the odds of reaching a cloud service is very slim out here.

I’m nearly done my coffee. It’s only been ten minutes, but I can’t imagine continuing this conversation when there is nothing new I can tell her.

Then she says, “What about his depression—was he still on medication for that?”

I still, holding the coffee cup to my lips. My entire body ices over and my thoughts stutter in my head for a moment. It takes a moment for them to restart—for my body to restart, for me to finish my sip of coffee, for me to regain my guards.

“Excuse me?” I say carefully.

She doesn’t miss a beat, which tells me a lot of this has been an act. She wanted me bored, wanted me lulled into thinking she’s an idiot. “His depressive episodes. Was he in one when he went missing?”

If I say my husband didn’t have depression, and it turns out there’s a record I don’t know about, I look clueless. If I say no he wasn’t in an episode, I confirm he had depression and lend credence to her theory. If I tell her to fuck off and leave, I make everything worse.

Instead I don’t reply to that. My eyes narrow as I stare at her. “What are you implying, Ms. Montgomery?” Let her come out and say it.

“I’m just trying to get into his frame of mind. He left behind his car, his ID.”

I stare evenly at her. If it makes her nervous, she doesn’t show it.

“Weren’t you aware of his history of depression?”

Very carefully I set my coffee cup down with a decisive click. “What I’m aware of is that someone implying my husband is missing because he killed himself can’t possibly be writing an article including a plea for his safe return and is here under false pretenses.”

“Mrs. Sparrow—”

“Sharp,” I correct. “And you can use that as a direct quote.” I slide from the booth and reach for my canvas utility jacket and scarf on the hook beside it.

“I certainly didn’t mean to imply—”

“I certainly think you did. Enjoy your day, Ms. Montgomery.” I rapidly cross the bar, slipping my phone in my pocket as I go and then zipping my coat up.

As I near the door, I catch the eye of a man in the booth across the room—he’s been watching the exchange, face shadowed by the visor of his beat-up baseball cap. I look away and march out the door into the bitter air.

When I reach the SUV, I send a quick text to Janelle asking her not to stop in town on the way home with Nadia and that I’ll explain when she gets here.

 

*

 

My WiFi signal is terrible and I have to use my cell phone to search, but I find Jenni Montgomery all over the internet.

On her own website, a simple but slick landing page with her social media links and publication history, I find out she’s written for both online and print publications all around Vancouver, and is a frequent guest on true crime podcasts. But it’s her current work that catches my attention: she’s part of a relatively new missing persons not-for-profit, Lost Ones Advocacy Network, abbreviated to L.O.A.Net. I’ve heard of them, at least peripherally, because of my own research since Nick went missing. Their online presence in such a short period of time has been enormous—smart social media usage, plenty of viral posts. A lot of press about six months ago when they helped solve a cold case in Manitoba from a few years back. From what I can tell, Montgomery wasn’t a part of that, but it gives me a sense of what to expect from her.

I don’t like it.

I’ll be happy if someone finds Nick, don’t get me wrong, but not the way the Lost Ones go about it. There’s an entire section on controversies and criticisms on their Wikipedia entry—identifying information about children posted without consent, property trespassing, hacking. Complaints from both authorities and families, investigations into their methods. They had success cases, absolutely, but drew a lot of negative attention.

Perhaps most disturbingly, a few months ago they were responsible for a missing kid post going viral—the kid had fled an abusive home and was nearly killed by her father two days after they “helped” reunite them.

This is very bad.

Outside the house, I hear a car door shut and Janelle’s sunny voice.

I start and look up, realizing I hadn’t turned the light on when I came in—hadn’t done anything. The grocery bag is still on the counter, a puddle of water gathers on the floor beneath my feet where I haven’t taken my boots off. The failing October sun is hidden by the trees of the woods, throwing my house into bluish darkness.

I blink, set my phone face-down on the kitchen island, and adjust for a moment to the darkness before rising. I hadn’t even taken my coat off, and now my skin beneath is slick with sweat. With the insulation and heaters, the house is warm despite expending minimal energy right now. Nick planned it well.

I get my boots tucked away by the door and coat set aside—there’s nowhere to hang it, not yet, as I haven’t even thought about painting let alone decided on hooks or something else for storage here—and open the door to Janelle carrying Nadia in her purple snowsuit on her hip. Just as they near the door, I hit the light, and if Janelle notices it was off, she doesn’t say.

I reach for my daughter when Janelle steps inside. Nadia’s dark brown eyes are alight—she’s had a good day, clearly. I pull off her boots and drop them next to mine; they’re dry, there’s only been about an inch of snowfall and it would’ve been shoveled at Janelle’s in Whitehorse, and Nadia was carried the few steps to the house.

“She had a nap with the boys and woke up just before we came home.” Janelle pulls off her boots but leaves her coat, and closes the door behind her.

“Thank you for taking her today, I got a lot done.”

She waves me off. “You took the twins how many times—it’s no problem.”

That was before I moved into this house to finish it, however; now my time is more limited, and while I know I’ll resume swapping the role of playdate host more frequently when things are finished and safer for small kids, at the moment I struggle with the fear I’ve been taking advantage of her generosity.

With the house open-concept downstairs, it’s just a few steps from the kitchen area to the left of the door into the large unfinished living room that takes up the back of the house. Only half the floors are done because we’ve been hanging the last of the drywall this week. Kitchen and bathroom have slate tile and are done. Downstairs will be hardwood everywhere else, coming next week. Expensive as hell and if Nick hadn’t already made the deposit, I would’ve gone for something cheaper. For now, we’re surviving on subfloor and some cheap area rugs anywhere my daughter walks.

I set Nadia on the couch and get her outwear off as she natters on about everything she did that day. She loves Janelle’s boys—Sam and Simon are twins, three months younger than she is, and we see them often enough that it’s almost been like growing up with siblings.

Static clings to her shoulder-length dark hair and leaves it sticking up all over when I pull her wool toque off. She swipes her mittened hands over it, but those are covered in wool too and just makes it worse. I get a shock but only chuckle as I divest her of the snowsuit.

She looks a lot like me, though she inherited her father’s eyes. When she’s older I wonder if they’ll be heavy and piercing, but for now she radiates warmth and that comforts me.

She hops off the couch to get her backpack from Janelle—she knows the routine, even at this age unpacking her things without complaint. It’s good preparation for when she goes to school. Lunchbox on the counter by the sink, and she’ll take her Barbies upstairs. The bag she sets just so to the side of the kitchen cabinets and trundles off for the stairs.

Her room is one of the only finished spaces. I can live with a lot in disarray, but she shouldn’t have to—she’s got all her furniture set up, secured to the walls, as well as all her toys unboxed and in their appropriate spots. Paint on the walls to match her bedspread, teal and grey—she picked it out, and while I’d winced at the price, the room is beautiful and she’s so happy with it the cost was worth it. The likelihood is that she’ll get right into playing with her Barbies when she goes to put the dolls away, and now I’m glad for it. I rise stiffly—not sure why, other than a bone-aching weariness that seems to have flared up this late afternoon—and head for the kitchen to unpack the groceries.

“What’s up?” Janelle leans next to the counter, studying me.

She’s very pretty. Medium brown skin, natural tight dark curls with the bottom two inches dyed red. Subdued style, the kind that looks effortless and professional when she’d tell you she just threw some random thing on. Her only piercing, a silver barbell in her left eyebrow, glints in the kitchen light.

Nadia and I are very lucky to have Janelle and all her boys in our lives. There is literally no one else out here I trust now that Nick’s gone.

Not just out here, really—no one in the whole world.

“I was basically accosted outside the General Mart,” I say as I get the refrigerated items put away first. There’s not a lot in the fridge—I need to stock up better come winter. More non-perishables in case we get snowed in. Five years in the Yukon and I’m still not ready for the cold snaps.

“Accosted?”

“About Nick.”

“Hmm. Owen?”

It’s a good guess. Owen McKenzie is the closest Nick has to family now in Red Fox Lake. They were friends as kids, grew apart, and then reconnected. He’s avoided me in the year since Nick has been gone, but last month he tried to approach me twice in town before backing off without saying a word, which I’d told Janelle about.

It was him watching my exchange with Montgomery in the bar.

I shake my head. “A...reporter, sort of. I guess she calls herself a journalist. She currently works with a network trying to find missing persons.”

Janelle already has out her phone. “Name?”

“Jenni Montgomery—Jenni with an ‘i’—but it’s the Lost Ones Advocacy Network you want to look up.”

She does so while I finish with the groceries and fold up the paper bag. It could be recycled but Nadia has a strong artistic streak—she’ll want it for something, I’m sure.

Janelle lets out a low whistle as I turned to face her, my hip against the counter and arms crossed against my abdomen. My bulky cable-knit sweater is warm, too warm, but I don’t know if I’m sweating because of the churning in my gut or because the house feels unusually warm.

At last she looks up. “What do you mean accosted you?”

“Just strolled up wanting to interview me. I sat with her at the bar for ten, maybe fifteen, and it was all innocuous—then she starts asking if I knew about Nick’s ‘depression’.”

Silence settles between us. Janelle knew Nick well before me—that’s why I even have her in my life, their long-time friendship establishing enough goodwill that she welcomed Nadia and me like old friends—and I already know the answer she’s about to give since the comment didn’t surprise her. Still...I brace for the confirmation.

“It’s been a lot of years since he had issues,” she says at last.

“So you knew?” There’s no accusation in my voice. No hurt, either. Because I trust Janelle enough to know she would’ve spoken up if she’d suspected that was why he went missing.

She nods. “When his parents died, he went to a real dark place. I put him in touch with a colleague. He went for about six or eight months.”

Janelle is a grief counsellor. This is the other reason why I knew she’d speak up. She knows warning signs, behavioural patterns. She knew Nick as well as I did. And while I know sometimes folks hide a lot when going through something, there wasn’t a single sign. He slept well. He ate and drank well. He didn’t say strange things, he didn’t act out of character, he didn’t give away possessions, he didn’t suddenly get his affairs in order. He was stressed about the house, but also excited.

Nick did not kill himself and, facing Janelle, I realize she’s helped quash the slowly sprouting doubt Montgomery had placed in me just an hour ago.

“He didn’t have a history of depression prior to that,” she continues. “It was grief-related. Even then, I don’t suspect he reached a point of suicide ideation. He wouldn’t tell me, but I think he would’ve spoken to Easton. And Easton would’ve come to me—and he would’ve said something when Nick went missing. But that’s the problem with mental health—once it’s in your file, even that you were seeking help, suddenly it casts a shadow on everything else.” She’s fuming even though I can see her trying to tamp down on it.

It’s a subject she’s passionate about, to say the least. Especially out here where the winters are so dark and so long, depression is a disease that rears up often enough in our communities.

“No one’s ever made such a suggestion to me,” I say. “Not even the RCMP and they asked a lot of questions and posed a lot of theories. Montgomery said she was writing an article coming out in December about missing people in the north, but it felt too coincidental that she’d be here right before the anniversary. That was before I looked her up.”

“She didn’t mention this Lost Ones thing.”

I shake my head. “Not a word. The main publication she mentioned to me is a podcast that’s on hiatus, nothing about her other work. And if this Lost One’s group such a big advocacy thing for families, why wouldn’t she lead with that?”

“So she’s somehow on Nick’s case, all the way in Red Fox Lake just before winter, accosting you, and apparently either had access to Nick’s confidential medical information or someone who knew that about him told her already.”

I chew at the inside of my mouth, an old habit I hadn’t done in years. “Apparently.”

“I don’t like this either,” she murmurs.

She’d tell me if I was being paranoid, and I don’t know if I’m relieved or not that she doesn’t. But the sick feeling in my gut just intensifies, because I know something’s coming even if I can’t see it yet.

I taste blood.