“You! You’re here!” She raises her palm in greeting. “You know how weird it is that you’re suddenly hanging out, that I’m suddenly seeing you everywhere?” I watch an ember die on the ground. “I mean, it wasn’t like Odilie was the most effusive person. I barely knew the woman even though we were ‘friends.’ She was so quiet, kind of weird? I wonder if there’s more to that story. I really do. Such a fucking tragedy. But better to let dead dogs lie. Or is it sleeping dogs?” She laughs, a honk.

Her husband grabs her hand. “Leave it alone, Riss.” But there’s a glint of delight in his eyes, like he’s turned on by his wife having words with me. I put him on my list of potential information sources and smile lightly.

“It’s totally okay. I’m used to it,” I say and move on, making my way back indoors, attempting to insert myself into other groups, the collective vibe getting more raucous, more debauched, my face staring back at me, again and again, from every mirrored surface.

Two hours later and my feet hurt, my hair is limp, my mascara pooling at the corners of my eyes. I’m sitting outside in a freshly vacated lawn chair, imbibing my fifth drink of the night, staring out into the darkness. This has been a total bust. I’ve spoken to so many people that my cheeks hurt from stretching my face into a smile, my mouth dry from the exertion. I’ve talked to almost everyone on my list and each one—no matter how drunk, or how much I batted my eyes, touched their thighs—refused to talk about Tom in any meaningful way.

I think back to Colin at the book party, offering me unsolicited information, and wonder if I’ve overestimated myself, if the real key is to not want it and then the details will come. I look up at the moon, the same one shining anywhere for everyone, whether you’re a murderer or a survivor, a billionaire or unhoused.

I’ve been trying to expend all this energy to absolve myself, when maybe I should just let it go, let the tides turn and see where they take me. Maybe I’m not supposed to live a big life. Maybe this whole horrific situation was supposed to teach me to be quieter, less myself.

And maybe there really is nothing else to know. Maybe Tom was a normal guy who snapped one day because of me, the oft repeated tagline of my narrative.

Someone sits in the chair beside me, letting out a sigh. Most of the party is now on the beach, where the DJ is playing a late-night set. “Car isn’t coming for two hours,” the voice says, and I turn to see Jackson sprawled out, hair mussed, what looks like a hickey on his neck.