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“Absolutely not!” Her jaw sets in that familiar determined line. “I’m close to something big, Rae. I can feel it.” She pauses, then adds in a murmur, “Some stories you can't walk away from. Even when you probably should.”

“But if someone’s following you?—”

“Then I’ll be careful.” She fixes me with a pointed look. “Besides, you’re hardly in a position to lecture me about self-preservation. You quit your job yet?”

“No, but?—”

“Then I’m not quitting mine.”

We glare at each other for a long moment, two hard-headed women who refuse to take their own advice. Then Jillian’s mouth twitches, and I feel mine doing the same, and before Iknow it, we’re both laughing, overwhelmed with the helpless, unhinged giggles that only come when you’re so tired you can’t think straight.

“God, we’re disasters,” I say, reaching for the wine bottle on the coffee table.

“Complete and utter disasters,” she agrees as she holds out her glass for a refill. “But at least we’re disasters together.”

I top us both off and settle back into the couch cushions, tucking my feet under me. The familiar comfort of Jillian’s presence helps me breathe easy for the first time in days. I put on the TV for background noise and we chatter for a while.

Eventually, the conversation winds down. Jillian yawns so wide I can see her molars, and I realize I’m not far behind her. The time zone hopping is doing a number on my sleep cycles.

“Stay over,” I say with a nod toward my bedroom. “It’s late, and I don’t like the idea of you going home alone if someone’s been following you.”

She looks like she wants to argue, but another yawn cuts her off. “Fine. But I’m stealing your good pillow.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

We shuffle through my nighttime routine like we have a hundred times before. When we finally crawl into my bed, Jillian on the left side like always, I feel safe again.

“Hey, Rae?” Her whisper is soft in the darkness.

“Yeah?”

“Just be careful, okay? I don’t want to lose you.”

“I’ll be careful,” I promise.

I’m not sure either of us believes it.

When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. I pat the sheets blindly, still half-asleep, expecting to find Jillian’s familiar warmth. But my hand encounters nothing but rumpled cotton and the indent where her body used to be.

“Jill?” I croak, pushing myself up on one elbow.

I fumble for my phone on the nightstand. The screen tells me it’s 4:53 A.M., which is ungodly early by any reasonable standard, but especially by Jillian’s. That woman would sleep until noon if the world let her.

There’s a text waiting for me.

JILLIAN PIERCE

Had to run. Source finally agreed to meet. Will call later. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone. xo Bean

It takes a while for my sleep-addled brain trying to parse whether “source” means something innocuous or something that should make me worried. Given everything she told me last night about being followed, I’m leaning toward worried.

But before I can spiral too far down that particular rabbit hole, I notice the little red notification badge hovering over my email app.

Twenty-four new messages.

That can’t be good.

I tap the icon and scroll through the usual detritus—spam, newsletters I don’t remember subscribing to, a reminder about my overdue library book. But near the top, there’s one that makes me sit up straighter.