The champagne bubbles tickled my nose as I raised my glass to Mara, who looked exhausted and radiant in equal measure. Her newborn daughter, Lily, slept peacefully in the hospital bassinet beside her bed, tiny fists curled against her cheeks like she was ready to fight the world even in her dreams. "To the best godmother a girl could ask for," Mara said, her voice hoarse from twelve hours of labor. "To the best friend who actually trusted me with another human life," I countered, trying to keep my tone light even as emotion threatened to crack my voice. "Are you sure about this? I can barely keep a succulent alive." Mara laughed, then winced. "You saved my life in more ways than one, Emma. There's no one else I'd trust with her if anything ever happened to me." If only she knew the truth about how I'd "saved" her. If only she knew who I really was before I became Emma Torres, before I reinvented myself in this sleepy Connecticut suburb, before I buried Sarah Mitchell so deep I almost believed she'd never existed. But that was five years ago. Five years of peace. Five years of normal. I pulled out my phone and snapped a photo of Lily, her rosebud mouth slightly open, her impossibly small fingers splayed against the white hospital blanket. She was perfect. Innocent. Everything I'd never be again. "Let me get one of you holding her," Mara insisted. Before I could protest, she'd placed Lily in my arms. The baby weighed nothing and everything at once. I looked down at her, and something fierce and protective surged through my chest—something I hadn't felt since I'd walked away from my old life. Mara took the photo, and I could see the tears in her eyes. "You're going to be amazing at this." I handed Lily back carefully, like she was made of spun glass. "I should let you rest. David will be back soon with your parents." "Post that photo," Mara called as I reached the door. "Show the world my beautiful girl." In the hospital parking lot, I sat in my car and scrolled through the photos. In the last one, I was looking down at Lily with an expression I barely recognized—tender, vulnerable, almost maternal. It was a good picture. The kind that got likes and comments, that made your social media presence look like you had your life together. My finger hovered over the share button. I'd been so careful for five years. My Instagram was private, only forty-three followers, all people I'd carefully vetted. Local friends, colleagues from the library where I worked, Mara's family. No one from before. No one who knew Sarah. It was just a baby photo. What could possibly go wrong? I typed the caption: "Promoted to Godmother. My little heir has arrived! 👶💕" The word "heir" was a joke—Mara and I had laughed about how dramatic it sounded, like we were royalty instead of two thirty-something women who spent most weekends binge-watching true crime documentaries and eating takeout. I hit share. The likes started coming immediately. Mara's mom commented with a string of heart emojis. My coworker Jessica wrote, "Congratulations! She's gorgeous!" I drove home to my apartment, that warm champagne buzz still humming through my veins, thinking about how I'd need to learn nursery rhymes and how to change diapers, wondering if I should take an infant CPR class. My phone buzzed with notifications the whole drive. By the time I pulled into my parking spot, the post had thirty-seven likes. And one new follower. The username was @SarahComingHome. My blood turned to ice. The phone slipped from my hands, clattering against the cup holder. No. No, no, no. It wasn't possible. That name was dead. That life was dead. I'd made sure of it. With shaking fingers, I picked up the phone and clicked on the profile. It was private, no profile picture, no posts, no followers, no information at all. Just that username, created today, twenty minutes ago. Exactly twelve minutes after I'd posted the photo. My apartment building suddenly felt too exposed, too vulnerable. I grabbed my phone and keys and ran up the three flights of stairs, my heart hammering against my ribs. The door was locked. Everything was as I'd left it. But something felt wrong, like the air pressure had changed, like someone had been there and rearranged molecules I couldn't see. I checked every room, every closet, under the bed, behind the shower curtain. Nothing. I was being paranoid. It was just a random bot account, or someone's idea of a joke. The username was a coincidence. Sarah was a common name. But "Coming Home" wasn't. Those were the last words he'd said to me, five years ago, before I'd disappeared in the middle of the night. "I'll find you, Sarah. And when I do, I'm coming home." My phone buzzed in my hand. A direct message request from @SarahComingHome. I should have deleted it. Blocked the account. Called the police. Instead, I opened it. The message contained no words. Just a photo. It was a picture of my apartment building, taken from the parking lot. Taken ten minutes ago.