Detective Jameson, on the other hand, stands and gathers his things. He pulls out a business card, slipping it across the table with a smile. "If you ever want to talk, my door is always open."

He walks out, past his superior. I stand, rubbing my sweaty palms on the legs of my jeans and slip the business card in my pocket with my mother's letter as I look between the men. "So I can go?"

"Of course," the man says, nodding tersely. "Thank you for coming in."

"Sure," I mumble, my head down as I bolt out of the interrogation room. I hear the officers whispering behind me, their conversation heated, as I head into the lobby. Looking up, my footsteps stall when I come face-to-face with the last person I expected to be standing here. "Naz."

The corner of his lip twitches. "You okay, jailbird?"

I nod.

"Good." All humor fades from his expression, eyes darkening with rage as he turns his focus to the officers gathering behind me. His gaze shifts between them, taking them in, the pure hostility wafting from him enough to make the hairs on my arm stand on end. "If you gentlemen have anything else, my attorney will be more than happy to field your requests, which you're well aware of. It's why I pay him, after all."

"We had no questions for you," Detective Jameson says. "We just had a few for Miss Reed."

"Who is my fiancée, which you're also now aware of," Naz says. "Bullying a young woman is quite unbecoming of you, Jameson. I thought your mother would've taught you better than that."

Naz doesn't wait for the officer to respond. He motions with his head for me to come with him. I step past, and he presses his hand to my back, leading me out of the police station. His car waits by the curb for us. I slide in nervously, sickness brewing in the pit of my stomach.

Naz pulls into traffic, heading toward Brooklyn, before he relaxes. He slouches somewhat in the seat, letting out a deep sigh. I'm not sure if it's relief I hear or if it's exasperation.

"How did you know I was there?" I ask quietly.

"An associate gave me a courtesy call when he saw you brought in. I got there as soon as I could."

"Thank you," I say. "I'm glad you showed up."

He looks at me. Reaching his hand out, he cups my cheek, stroking the skin with his thumb. "I'll always show up."

"You promise?"

"I swear it."

I'm sitting on the bed, the note from my mother sprawled out on my lap. My gaze shifts through the numbers over and over, reciting them to memory. I'm stalling, I know it, and maybe it's senseless, but I'm almost afraid to call her.

She'll have questions.

Much the same ones I have for her.

What are you doing?

Where are you staying?

Why?

My answers are probably more scandalous than hers.

Sighing, I pull out my phone and dial the number, bringing it to my ear as it rings. I wait, almost expecting some sort of answering machine to greet me, when the line picks up. "Hello?"

This is not my mother. This voice is male, gruff with a thick sort of accent. I sit in silence for a moment, unsure of what to say or how to react, when he says it again, impatiently. "Hello?"

"I, uh… can I speak with Carrie?"

"Who?"

My stomach drops as I glance down at the paper. I know I got the numbers right. "Carrie," I say. "Carrie Reed?"

"Ah, yeah, hold on." I hear shuffling, then his muffled voice rings out in the background. "Carmela! I think it's her!"

My brow furrows. Carmela?

There's another rustling before a breathy voice picks up. "Kissimmee? Is it you?"

"Uh, yeah. What's going on, Mom? Who's that guy? Why'd he call you Carmela?"

"Never mind that now," she says dismissively. "I'm glad you're okay."

"Me? I'm fine. Where have you been? I've been worried!"

"I needed to move on, sweetheart. I told you that when you visited. It was time."

"You said you were thinking about it," I say. "I didn't expect you to pick up and leave everything behind. I went to check on you and—"

"You've been to the house? Was it ransacked?"

"Uh, no… why would it be?"

"No reason," she says. "Look, I can't really get into it on the phone. I'll explain everything, I will… I just need you to come see me. Can you do that, Kissimmee? It's important."

"I guess."

"Come alone," she says. "Okay? It's important nobody else know where I am. Understand?"

I understand, all right. She's snapped. All those years of running from memories and chasing phantoms has caught up to her, and she's lost what little sanity she had left. There's a difference between being crazy and being insane, and I'm terrified she's tiptoed over that line these past few weeks. "I'll come alone. Just tell me where you are."

She spouts off an address, and I scour through the drawers until I find a pen to scribble it down. She once more reiterates my need to come alone before hanging up, not once asking me how I am or where I've been or what I've been doing.

I toss my phone down on the bed beside me as I stare at the address. New Jersey. It wouldn't take me too long, half a day to get there, get my answers, and get back here to Brooklyn. Maybe I can convince her to come back with me, get some sort of help, because whatever she's doing isn't normal.