“Odilie never talked about New York,” Page says suddenly, showering her pizza with red pepper flakes. “She just told my parents and me one day that she wanted to move. Then she started dating Tom. But again, we knew close to nothing about him. The move was completely out of the blue. We weren’t even sure if she was still working. It was all very bizarre.” She takes a bite of her pizza, a murmur of ecstasy tumbling out of her mouth as she chews and swallows.

I pour myself more wine. “You all really knew nothing about him? Even SNAPea?”

Page shakes her head midchew. “We knew he was rich. He had rich friends and that’s how they met, I guess, through her new set of friends.” The wine goes to my head, a vertiginous feeling of risk, that maybe inspires what I say next.

“She changed herself, didn’t she? Lost weight, got some minor retouches.”

Page places her wineglass down with a bit more force. “So you’ve been looking at her social media.”

I feel myself redden, straighten up, try to channel whatever self-possession I need to answer her. “Yes. I looked at her Instagram. I guess I wanted to know more about her.” I play with the stem of my wineglass.

“You mean her past. You and everyone else. That change you’re talking about was like, the hook for the documentary they wanted to do on her,” Page says nonchalantly, and I flinch, taking another slice of pizza, her face haloed nicely by the dim lighting.

“It was?” Of course it was. I’m not the only person who has done an Odilie deep dive, not in the age when all audiences want to do is guzzle down the new true crime story du jour. And they’ve probably learned far more than I, especially with no connection to her, to that scrawny, decomposing body.

“Yup. I can’t explain it. My parents can’t. We’re not even sure how she paid for it. All I know is that, during the first big transformation we didn’t see her for a few months. She said she was really busy at work. Her roommate at the time moved away that fall, so we lost touch with her, too. I don’t even remember her name.” Without a word, she pads across the kitchen and takes some good Espadin mezcal from the liquor cabinet, pours it into two shot glasses and brings one over to me. “Tastes like you’re on a private jet, I swear. You’re supposed to sip, but whatever,” and she quaffs it before I even have my first taste.