He glances down in shame, taking a spoon to his latte and mixing in the foam. He pauses before speaking. “I think they’re trying to make peace with you, Vee. They’re telling you it’s not your fault. Why else send that invitation?”

I grit my teeth. These are the moments, arduous and weighted, when I remember how alone I am here. How there is no guidebook to what happened to me, no AA meetings for those who get caught in the crosshairs of violent crimes. That I have no community to turn to, to ask: How do you navigate a friend so naive, so unassuming and hopeful about humanity, that he thinks an invitation like this is an olive branch?

“No one cares about making me feel good, Quinn. Especially not her family. They sent it out of spite. Her sister probably wants to call me out in a eulogy and expose me as some homicidal, soulless whore.”

He slurps some foam off the spoon. “Well, at least you look good in black. And you can run in heels so when the mob comes after you that won’t be an issue, either.” His quips don’t make me smile, though, and he casts his eyes back down into his drink. But he looks up again just as quickly, composing himself. “What if it’s not like that, though? What if they do want to reach out? What if they understand that this whole horror has caused you pain as well? This could help you, Vera.”

I scoff. “I can see the Post headline now. Something about being attention seeking, never allowing the family to mourn in peace. A blurry picture of my thong showing through my dress.”

Quinn sighs. “It’s in the West Village. The invitation said no press. So what’s the worst that can happen? We can go, stand at the back, and if someone is a dick we can leave.” I give him another deadly glare. “I checked, Vera. After I opened the letter, I checked all the interviews the press did with Odilie’s family, and even when coaxed, even when the opportunity was dangled right in front of them to disparage you, they never did. Not once.”

My eyes widen and I start to quake again, my fingers tingling like at the onset of tears or a panic attack. After moving to my mom’s, and thanks to Quinn blocking certain sites on my phone, I’d begun to avoid all of it, any new mentions or press. I already thought I knew what everyone believed me to be. I’d been smart and deleted my Instagram right away. But I saw it in my Twitter replies, the anonymous emails and letters I received. I saw it in the wary ambivalence of the cop who watched my building because of the press, the way he wouldn’t look me in the eye.