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door, she turned the lock, closing herself in before snatching the card from the duffel. She turned it over in her hand.
    Don’t be afraid. You’re the badass. You’re healing super-fast. Don’t get any ideas, though. You aren’t immortal.
    I left you in good hands. Everything you need is in the bag. Call me when you’re ready. No rush. I know I was an asshole. Don’t use your phone. Use the one in the bag. There’s cash for lunch in there, too. Load up on calories. I’m serious.
    Kristen doubled over, struck by hunger at the mention of food. She clenched her jaw to stifle the reaction. It didn’t make any sense; she hadn’t felt hungry at all until she read the note, but now she was so hungry it hurt. She gingerly felt the bandages again. She hadn’t noticed the bullets until Jane said something, either.
    She slumped to the hardwood floor. Jesus Christ. They shot me. I got shot. I didn’t even know. That’s something you’d notice, right?
    She looked down at herself. She was still naked and sitting on a hardwood floor. No carpet. It should be cold.
    Then she shivered. Suddenly, it was cold. Could she turn it all off at will? Or was it adrenaline numbing her to those sensations?
    Kristen leapt to her feet, grabbed the duffel, and heaved it onto the rickety bed. Pulling the zipper, she found her blonde wig on top. She tossed it aside to reveal the clothes she’d stashed before changed into her Under Armour. She’d hidden those, and Jane had found them. She tossed those aside, too. More clothes. Clean clothes. Clothes from her closet at home. Her heart beat faster.
    She was in my house. Why was she in my house?
    She continued digging through the duffel. More clothes—options, she supposed—along with her phone, a burner, a hairbrush, three pairs of shoes, her wallet, her keys, her vitamins, a bottle of aspirin, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and various other hygiene products.
    Holy crap.
    She wasn’t sure whether to be impressed by Jane’s thoroughness or creeped out.
    She took a deep breath. Stop panicking , she told herself. It isn’t helping.
    Closing her eyes, she blew out the breath and drew another. She counted to ten, simply breathing. When she opened her eyes, she looked over the clothes, made her selection, and dressed: a navy blue racerback tank, a pair of black athletic shorts, and some sneakers.
    A perfectly casual summer outfit. Totally normal. Totally not weird. This is fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.
    She pulled her wig on, pinned it in place, and brushed it out in a hurry. Shoving shoes and clothes back into the duffel, she noticed a lumpy pocket for the first time. Simultaneously curious and afraid, she found the zipper and tugged it open. Inside, she discovered a treasure trove of granola bars—at least a dozen, if not more. Kristen gasped and dug into them, inhaling a handful as quickly as she could open them. She tore wrappers with her teeth, eating the bars one-handed as she crammed clothes back into the duffel with the other. As hungry as she felt, staying in this place any longer—wherever she was—held no appeal.
    Kristen zipped the bag and checked her phone’s GPS.
    No signal.
    She cursed and shoved it into her pocket. Slinging the bag over her shoulder, she wiped crumbs from her mouth, unlocked the door, and stepped out into a hallway.
    She wasn’t entirely sure what she expected; maybe a prison, a hospital, or some twisted complex from a horror film. Instead, it was just a house. The short hallway was painted mint green and covered with an array of photographs. Some of the photos looked downright ancient—black and white and blurry. The bathroom across from her was pure white with clean black trim, an image of art deco contrasting sharply the bedroom and hallway. Tiptoeing down the hall, she peeked into the second bedroom: floral orange with a faded shag carpet. Another room, another decade. She shuffled onward until she came to a split at the end of the hall. Kristen