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Daniel couldn’t have died on the operating table. If it was, like, the 1800s or something, he wouldn’t have survived the knife wound, but this is the twenty-first century. He should be fine. He can’t be dead.

If I killed him, then—

No. I can feel myself getting stuck, the image lodging in the wrinkles of my gray matter: Daniel bleeding out on his apartment floor, the paramedics finding a body instead of a patient. Or blue-scrubbed doctors fluttering around him while he codes in the operating room, full of tubes. No, no.

I can’t get stuck. I have to focus.

Focusing is hard when my phone is still showing Mom’s livestream. Even through the panic, she’ll definitely remember to save it and post the video to her page. Catalog listing: “nonfiction,” “video,” “social media influencer.”

FOCUS.

God, Mom’s iPad is a mess. Where the hell is that phone tracker app? She has it on at all times because she always loses her phone. In the couch cushions, in her coat, in the back seats of taxis.

As soon as it boots up, I zoom in on her location pin.

She’s parked near an emergency room.

My brain feels like it’s churning through sludge, but it’s working enough for a terrible suspicion to claw up my throat. There’s no other reason for her to be anywhere near a hospital. I swipe through the map to confirm, and—shit.

It’s not the emergency room I went to last week before my visit to USP East Early. Not our emergency room.

It’s the emergency room closest to Daniel’s apartment.

Felicity’s messages glare at me. I scoop up my phone but can’t figure out where to start. I delete and retype different things but none of them sound right. I didn’t do it. No, not that. I don’t know if I did or not. Are you okay? They don’t want to hear that from me.

Morgan

how long has she been live. she locked me in the fucking BASEMENT and I just got out and I don’t know what’s going on. I didn’t hurt her I swear to god I didn’t meant to do any of this

and I’m sorry about everything that happened at the penthouse

that was all so fucked up and I haven’t told anyone

anything and I’m so sorry about your sister. if I knew it was her I probably would’ve

I don’t know

done anything else probably

if you’d hurt me I would’ve understood. I deserve it

On the livestream, there is a flood of comments coming in from Mom’s followers, the people who’ve subscribed to see her podcast features and parenting inspiration and mommy resilience posts. There’s so many. Oh my god have you called the cops? And I’m praying for you and I knew she was going to do this eventually!!!

As Mom talks, she tugs nervously at stray pieces of hair escaping from her hat.

I squint at the screen.

Her hair is cut differently. Like I’m looking at a choppy attempt at curtain bangs. Not the long layers she’s spent so much money maintaining at the salon—my hairstyle. Under her coat, there’s a dark red sweater that looks too much like my Winthrop Academy uniform. And she’s wearing my nail polish. The same shade I’m wearing now.

She stole my shoes and Felicity’s switchblade. My sweater isn’t on the couch anymore.

There are thirty-five thousand security cameras in Washington, DC, and there’s not a single one with high enough definition to tell Mom and me apart.

At least—with high enough definition that people won’t be able to see exactly what they want to see.

And everyone wants to see me.

Felicity