I immediately knew something was wrong when the knock came, even before I came downstairs and saw Gran snapping, “What do you want, cop?”

I stood, leaning on the banister, a cold, metallic point stabbed the pit of my stomach. My fingers were shaking uncontrollably, and my breath came out in pants.

Three consecutive knocks. 333. Signs of the devil.

He came bearing bad news.

The officer showed us a carelessly-torned Post-It and told us how an anonymous piece of paper was planted in front of their station around noon this morning. He probably was saying more, but I couldn’t remember them all, because my memories of Jesse suddenly shattered into flashes of Gran’s red, scrunched faces and angry shouts and spinning world and slamming doors and crumbling knees.

I didn’t know if I cried. But I knew I was completely crushed by guilt. Guilt expanded in my throat and choking me alive.

I was the sole cause of this.

I dug my fingers into the walls and stumbled to the washroom, puking my guts and organs out.

She left because I didn't do the ritual. She left because I didn’t follow the guide enough time.

I screamed myself hoarse as I swiped the counter clean and lined up the shampoo bottles exactly according to their height, as I scrubbed my teeth bloody and my skin raw under boiling water.

I screamed and screamed for Jesse to come back.

But she never did.

Even though I repeated the ritual in Jesse’s favourite number many times.

She wouldn’t come back. She never will.