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Because I don't. And I don't have the energy to figure him out. Not when everything in me just wants to curl up and grieve the man I lost.

"We're in his house," she insists. Like always, Mom won't let go. When she wants something, whether material or information, she's worse than a dog with a bone. She tries every angle to get what she wants. "A place like this, and you don't know who he is?"

I close my eyes for a second. No matter how complicated things are between us, there's one thing about my mother: when it comes to secrets, to closing ranks, we're thick as thieves. She can be overbearing. Exhausting. A pain in my ass. She can drive me crazy, make me feel like I don't even like her sometimes, like she doesn't really see me at all. But when it matters? When push comes to shove? She will guard my secrets better than any best friend I've ever had. She would never use them against me. Not ever. That kind of loyalty runs bone deep with her. Which also means, she's not going to let this go. I open my eyes again. Sure enough, she's watching me. Waiting. For answers.

"I don't know," I say slowly. "I never really met him. I saw him at the police station when?—"

"When you got arrested," Mom cuts in, a snicker slipping out like she still thinks the whole thing is hilarious.

I nod. "And then at the ball…"

She straightens, narrows her eyes. "Hah!" she declares, pointing at me. "I knew there was more to that ball storythan you let on. Nobody justwins"—she makes air quotes—"something like that."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Mom?—"

"Are you fucking him?"

"Mom!" If I had the energy, I would have jumped off the couch.

My head snaps up. I shake my head hard. "You know I love—" My voice catches. "Loved Pete."

For just a second, guilt heats up my insides because not only was I going to leave him, but I hadn't told Mom about it yet either. There was no reason to upset her sooner than necessary.

She waves a hand like that's beside the point. "Bah. Love. Love has nothing to do with fucking someone."

Of course she'd say that. My mother has her own set of rules when it comes to life. And what's appropriate. And what isn't. I stare at her, caught between disbelief and exhaustion. She's still the same person who told me she'd take me to the doctor to get on the pill when I had my firstboyfriendat thirteen. It embarrassed me so much that I never saw the poor guy again. Yet, somehow, this is the conversation we're having.

"So you don't know him?"

I shake my head. "No. All in all, before today, we might have exchanged ten words with each other."

"Humph," Mom huffs. "What happened?"

Another thing about Mom? I don't have to sugarcoat anything. She's as direct as direct can be. Still, I leave a few things out, like the fingers on the floor, when I recount the events of the previous night. Even as I tell her about it, I'm still unable to believe this actually happened. Things like this don't happen to people like Pete and me. He works—worked, corrects my mind, bringing new tears to my eyes—for a bank. This is where I didn't want to end up. This is why I chose a life with him over the other.

"What if he's involved?" Mom speculates. She's one of those people who trusts no one. Not even me.

My eyes open, and I banish the thoughts from the warehouse from last night.

"No." But the word comes out fast. It's like an automatic reply when it comes to my mother. This time, it's too fast.

Because you don't know that for sure, do you?The realization sits in my chest, cold and sharp, as the city keeps glittering below us like nothing in the world has changed. I would be dead if he hadn't shown up.But not in time to save Pete, a voice inside me nags.

"I should call the police." Even as the words leave my mouth, they feel hollow.

"Yes," Mom agrees. "Yes, we should. This is—this is insane. We need to go home. My poor cats are probably out of their minds by now. I haven't even fed them yet."

Home. The word feels strange. Distant. I reach for my phone and realize once again that I don't have it. It was in my purse, which is in that warehouse… heat moves through me like I touched an electrical cord. The cops. Gabe said they were at the warehouse. They must have found my purse and… I start to shake.

"What's wrong?" Mom frowns.

"My purse. It's at the warehouse. If the cops found it, they'll know I was there, and…"

"Oh, the red one?" she asks, pointing to the entrance. There, on a side table, bright and red, sits my purse. Gabe must have put it there. Taken it from the warehouse.

On stilted legs, I walk the short distance to the entrance and grab my purse, only… no matter how much I search. My phone is not in it. That's when I remember dropping it by the trash when they… took me.

"Use the house phone again," Mom directs.