I walked down aisle four, my shoes quiet on the concrete floor.

A soft rustle came from the far corner of the room.

I froze, my hand stopping on the edge of a cardboard box.

“Who is there?” I asked.

The silence returned, thick and heavy.

“Is someone there?” I called out, my voice echoing off the concrete walls.

A figure stepped out from behind a row of shelves at the end of the aisle.

It was a young man, his jacket damp from the rain, his hair messy and clinging to his forehead.

It was Jason.

He looked smaller than he had at the dinner table, his shoulders hunched, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

“Elizabeth,” he whispered, his voice trembling.

“Jason?” I said, stepping back. “How did you get down here?”

“I followed you from the lobby,” he said, taking a step toward me. “The security guard was at the desk, but he wasn’t looking.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” I said. “You need to leave.”

“Please,” he said, his eyes wide and shiny with tears. “You have to help me. You have to talk to the police.”