It’s time to face the music.

I slept in Enzo’s car last night. I knew the police had a warrant for my arrest, and I just wasn’t ready to be locked up again. So I hid out, parked in a dark alley, sleeping in the backseat. There was a time when I used to live in my car, so sleeping in the backseat gave me some serious déjà vu.

It also made me realize that I can’t sleep in the backseat of Enzo’s car forever. I have to turn myself in and hope that the truth comes out.

When I pull up in front of my apartment building, I expect to see half the police force out there, camped out and waiting for me. But instead, there’s just a single patrol car. Still, I know it’s there for me.

Sure enough, as soon as I step out of Enzo’s Mazda, a young police officer leaps out of the patrol car. “Wilhelmina Calloway?” he asks.

“Yes,” I confirm.

Wilhelmina Calloway, you are under arrest. I brace myself for him to say the words, but he doesn’t. “Would you come down with me to the police station?”

“Am I under arrest?”

He shakes his head. “Not as far as I know. Detective Ramirez would very much like to talk to you, but you’re not under obligation to go.”

Okay then. That’s a good start.

I climb into the back of the police car. I’ve had my phone off the entire night, and I turn it on now. There are a few missed calls from the NYPD, and twenty missed calls from Enzo. He must’ve figured out I took his car. I don’t listen to the voicemails, but I scroll through the long string of text messages he sent me.

Where are you?

Do you have my car?

You took my car!

Please come back with my car. We will talk. Don’t go to that cabin!

Where are you? Very worried.

Please come back. Don’t go to the cabin. I love you. I will fix this. Come back.

And it just goes on like that.

The text messages continue through the night. He has been up half the night worried about me. I owe him an explanation, or at least to tell him I’m okay. So I sent him a text:

I’m OK. In the back of a police car right now. Not under arrest. Your car is in front of my building.

Enzo’s reply comes almost instantly, like he was staring at his phone, waiting for me to text him:

Where were you???????

I write back:

I slept in the car. Everything is fine.

Three bubbles appear on the screen as he types. I expect him to say something like he loves me or he was worried, or perhaps scold me for stealing his car. But instead, he says something extremely unexpected:

Wendy Garrick is dead. I saw on the news. What? How???

She killed herself.