Instead, she picked up a pen and did the only thing a true lister could do: she wrote one final entry. Not an episode. A note to herself.
By now, her list filled seventeen leather-bound journals. Each entry was a constellation of footnotes. For example:
“You found it,” he said, his voice flat as a frozen lake.
But that night, as she lay in bed, she noticed something on her nightstand. A single piece of paper. On it, in her own handwriting, was a title she didn’t remember writing:
She did not turn around.