Her red scarf is still in my pocket. I told myself I took it with me because I didn’t want to leave my DNA at her workplace, but that’s all a load of shit, of course. There was so much of my blood in that clinic when I left, that the amount soaked into her hair accessory was pitiful in comparison, and wouldn’t have registered. I wanted to have something of hers—a memento—so I stole it. Until then, I’ve never stolen a single thing in my whole life. I should check up on her. The need to make sure she’s safe rises within me like a tidal wave. It’s an unexplainable, ridiculous pull messing with my
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