Third Week of February, 2017

London

Eight days before Gemma left for the youth hostel, she called Chance's cell from the London flat. Her hands were shaking. She sat on the kitchen counter next to the bread box and let her feet dangle. It was very early in the morning. She wanted to get this call over with.

"Hey, Gemma," he said. "Is Willow back?"

"No, she's not."

"Oh." There was a pause. "Then why are you calling me?" The disdain in Chance's voice was palpable.

"I have some bad news," Gemma said. "I'm sorry."

"What is it?"

"Where are you?"

"In the newsagent's. Which is apparently what they call newsstands over here."

"You should step outside."

"All right." Gemma waited while he walked. "What is it?" Chance asked.

"I found a note, in the flat. From Willow."

"What kind of note?"

"It was in the bread box. I'm going to read it." Gemma held the note in her fingers. There were the tall, loopy letters of Will's signature, her typical phrases, and her favorite words.

Hey, Gemma. By the time you read this, I'll have taken an overdose of sleeping pills. Then I'll have hailed a taxi to the Westminster Bridge.

I'll have stones in my pockets. Lots of stones. I've been collecting them all week. And I will be drowned. The river will have me and I will feel some relief.

I'm sure you'll wonder why. It's hard to give an answer. Nothing is right. I don't feel at home anywhere. I haven't ever felt at home. I don't think I ever will.

Chance couldn't understand. Neither could Brooke. But you—I think you can. You know the me that nobody else can love. If there is a me, at all.

Will

"Oh God. Oh God." Chance said it over and over.

Gemma thought of the beautiful Westminster Bridge with its stone arches and its green railings, and of the heavy, cold river flowing underneath it. She thought of Will's body, a white shirt floating around her, facedown in the water, in a pool of blood. She really did feel the loss of Willow Blair acutely, more than Chance ever could. "She wrote the note days ago," Gemma told Chance when he finally went silent. "She's been gone since Wednesday."

"You said she went to Paris."

"I was guessing."

"Maybe she didn't jump."

"She left a suicide note."

"But why? Why would she?"

"She never felt at home. You know that was true about her. She said it in the note." Gemma swallowed and then said what she knew Chance would want to hear. "What do you think we should do? I don't know what to do. You're the first person I told."

"I'm coming over," said Chance. "Call the police."