Why the hell had they chosen me to be the center of their domestic mess? Their deaths may not reveal any answers, either. But there’s one person whom I can think of to ask, even though she may have no answers herself.

When I walk up the stoop, I don’t even bother to ring the bell or knock on the door, because I know that hidden in the soil of the window box is a spare key, which I’m sure the Benningtons would prefer Page kept on her. But at least it’s buried deep in the mulch. When I push the door open, I’m engulfed in dark and chilly shadows. The central air, blessedly, is turned on, but my eyes have to adjust to the dim light. It feels subterranean, a respite from the blazing sun outside. It’s the kind of overfunctioning AC that will soon make the house too cold. That will have you grabbing for a sweater, despite the sweltering weather.

I start calling out Page’s name, trying to figure out where she is. She really has made the place into a tomb of sorts, probably anticipating the extreme heat. I had warned her; there’s nothing like a New York City heat wave. You can suffer through all kinds of summers but there’s something uniquely gruesome about the humidity here, the stink of garbage and people, the air so polluted that it seems to collude with the humidity to make the outdoors as uncomfortable as possible.

I find her, finally, still in bed, fast asleep, two blankets wrapped around herself. Next to her, the remnants of a drink, what I suspect were ice cubes long ago melted to water. She’s not an elegant sleeper. Her mouth hangs open, hair sticking to the corner of her lip. She’s so stationary that for a second her stillness is corpse-like, her slack jaw like a stiffened hinge. Then she lets out a light snore. Thankfully, Jackson is nowhere to be found.

“Page,” I say too quietly.

“Page!” I say again, my voice near her exposed ear. She jolts awake right away, alarmed by the noise, a look of panic crossing her face before her eyes adjust and she sees me.

“Oh hey. What’s up?” She fishes around with her hand on the bedside table, finally finding a half-filled Poland Spring bottle and guzzling the rest down. Once she’s hydrated, she seems clearer-eyed, more alert. “Sorry about passing out at the Benningtons’ the other night. To be honest I barely remember our ride home.” She hiccups.