The ride back home was a haze. After nearly five hours at the police station, he was beyond tired, beyond frustrated, even beyond angry. He was numb to his own existence. As he pulled into the parking lot, however, a desperate jolt of hope surged through him and he raced up to the elevator thinking:  
 “What if she came back?”  
 There had been a lot of blood. But they didn’t know if it was hers yet, did they? And they hadn’t found a body either, had they? 
 It was a mindless impulse. When he opened the door he knew she wasn’t there, but he still checked every room (not that there were many). There was a lot of yellow tape. Pointless, really. The cops had stormed in, taken pictures, had bagged a few things and left muddy footprints on the carpet. It’d have to be dry-cleaned later. He hung his coat without thinking it and went to get cleaning supplies from under the kitchen sink. 
  Losing yourself in work always came easy to him. It made sense to give your hands something to do when your head was moving too fast. To reduce yourself to the simple act of scrubbing stains off the floor without a spare thought for what would come next. The familiar smell of detergent would burn away all feeling just as it lifted the red off the tiles and anchor his mind in something resembling reality. 
 It wasn’t working. 
 Things were still spinning. 
 Reality was still far away. 
 He stopped abruptly, realizing he’d just been scrubbing the same spot over and over again. His hands smelled of lemon and he stared at them, stared at his dry, outstretched  fingers wondering if the blood was his own or, or 
 It was with no little measure of sick curiosity that he contemplated just how close he was to really losing it. Or what it would feel like to finally find out. 
 “Selfish.” He thought, out of sheer mental habit, but it didn’t really matter. He reached up and put a hand on the counter, frowned, feeling his fingers bump into something, and looked up. 
 Zoey’s purple coffee mug was sitting right there in front of him. Still purple. And still full of stale coffee. Maybe the cops didn’t notice it or maybe they didn’t think it was important – whatever the reason for it being there, this tiny, undisturbed piece of what up until a few hours ago was the center of his life, his happiness, his existence – it did the trick. He lost it. 
 It hit him simultaneously that he was both expecting her to come in any second and put the mug in the microwave and aware that she was probably never going to. And it was as if he’d suddenly noticed there was a gaping hole tearing its way through his chest, and by noticing it made grow wider, swallowing his insides, leaving him clutching the counter and gasping for breath that wouldn’t  come because he had no lungs to breathe with.  
 This was it. This was everything he’d ever feared would happen, concentrated in a single event. She was gone. He had to do something. This was the kind of moment that required all of his willpower, all of his brain and every resource he could get his hands on because (shecouldnotbenotalivetherewasnotenoughbloodshewasouttheresomewhere) if there was even a tiny chance he could find her he had to do something now. 
 He sat on the floor, bent over and hyperventilating, and allowed himself to be engulfed by terror. 
 “So this is what it feels like” some detached part of him seemed to say. He felt like he was dying. 
 And he was a tiny bit relieved.