And seriously, if you were me back then and you suddenly had an established, nice-looking guy interested in taking care of you, you’d go for it too. What girl on the streets would say no to that? Who?

No one, that’s who. But I know better now.

Yeah, everything I did with Antoine and Spencer was for money, but it was my money. Not someone else’s. There’s a big, big difference. After I left Jon I wasn’t looking for the things money could buy, I was looking for the freedom to walk away any time I wanted.

That’s what money really gives you. Walking privileges.

I hesitate at the edge of the woods. I don’t see anyone but I stay hidden and stalk around the perimeter as best I can before setting foot out on what’s left of the lawn. Both of our cars are still there. He must’ve picked mine up from where I left it the day I ran. I peek in the window as I walk past and catch sight of the crystal glass hanging from the rear-view. I open the door impulsively and snatch it until the nylon string breaks, and then close the door gently.

It glitters in the sun and makes my stomach turn. Jon gave me this early in our relationship. I huck it out into the grass because it needs to be forgotten, just like all the rest of the stuff in this place. I continue on to Jon’s car and peek in his windows too. Mine’s an old Toyota Camry, but Jon drove a late-model Mustang. There’s nothing in there, not even a scrap of paper from a straw wrapper.

Jon is a neat freak.

I suppose he left his car here because it would be stupid to disappear in your own car. I don’t open his door, just continue walking up to the back stoop. No railing, just five concrete steps leading up to a door. I stop and lift up the roof of an empty birdfeeder off to the side and take out the spare key taped to the top. The back door doesn’t function. Nailed shut courtesy of Psycho Uncle Pete. Too close to the basement, I always figured. So I creep around to the front of the house and listen for signs that someone might be inside.

I wait a few minutes and then hop up the identical stoop in front, push the key in the lock, and twist the door knob.

It swings open with a creak and I hesitate for a second, but I’m more afraid of someone pulling into the driveway and catching me here than I am of crossing the threshold.

So I step inside, close the door, and remind myself it’s just a place. It’s not alive, it’s not evil, it’s just a place.

But it’s a place that has been tossed from ceiling to floor. The leather couch is standing on end, the lining underneath split open. Every cushion as well. Stuffing coats the floor and it looks like it snowed in here. The end table drawers are upside down on the coffee table, their meager contents—Jon never did tolerate a junk drawer—spilled out. All the pictures are strewn about, their canvases split open, like we were hiding secret documents under the paintings.

When I look to the right the kitchen is in the same state. I walk in there. Jon did live up to his promise. My kitchen has granite countertops, maple cabinets, travertine tiles on the floor, and stainless steel appliances. All of which are dented now with what looks to be booted footprints. The French doors of the fridge are open, as is the lower freezer drawer, the contents inside long past spoiled. All the cupboards are open and the remains of the dishes are scattered around on the floor, my boots crunching in the debris as I back out and wind my way through the strewn-about furniture, towards the first floor bedrooms.

I want to stop myself. I want to scream at myself, tell the inner Rook not to go there. Nothing good can come of it. Just turn back and get what you came for.

But I can’t.

I can’t leave here without looking at it one more time.

All the doors are open as I pass. Our bedroom is ransacked, the guest room is ransacked, the hall bathroom is ransacked, and the office is also ransacked.

But one door remains closed and this alone makes me want to cry. I walk slowly to the last door on the left at the end of the hallway and open it.

My baby’s room is not a mess. In fact, it’s almost neat and tidy—the bedding in the crib is in a heap, the mattress ripped down the side, but it’s all there. When I pull open a drawer all the tiny clothes are messed up, but they are all still there. Proof that whoever the searcher was, they must’ve either taken their time to look through things properly or they fixed everything after they were done.

I wonder what kind of thug does that?

The crib is white and the bedding is blue. All the bottles are lined up near the bottle warmer on the changing table. The Diaper Genie is still standing at attention in the corner, its askew top the only clue that it was searched by the thugs who trashed my house.

I suck in a breath as my eyes wash over the picture frame on the dresser.

It’s me. Eight months pregnant.

I’m wearing a fluffy peach dress, I’m barefoot, I’m huge, and I’m standing outside in front of the blooming purple lilac bush on the east side of the house.

I’m also smiling. Because even though my world would fall apart very soon after this picture was taken, I was happy that day. I was hopeful that Jon was changing, that this baby was a good idea after all, that he’d be better, happier, satisfied—if he just had a son.

I didn’t miscarry at six weeks like most girls. I carried that baby to term.

I went to all those check-ups, heard the heartbeat, saw the ultrasound, had a name picked out, had a room, a car seat, a crib, breast pump, baby swing, the cute bedding, the adorable onesies, the rocking chair by the window, and a baby bag packed and ready for the hospital—I had everything.