I even tell them about Odilie’s Instagram, and Quinn’s eyes widen because I hadn’t shared one word with him about my midnight sessions on her account. “I guess Page wants resolution. She wants to know who this dead person was, and I can’t tell her that story. And part of me wishes I could. And then the other part is like, fuck this, get me as far away from Page, her demons, as I can get. But of course, that’s also impossible.” There’s a stretch of silence when I finish. Outside there’s the rumbling of an argument, something about parking, and I focus on that, waiting for Sam, for anyone, to say something.

“You’re right. There’s not much else to find on Odilie’s Instagram,” Sam says so factually that it almost sounds like an echo of my own thought. Quinn gives them a confused look, brow wrinkling in bemusement. Sam holds up their hands in an “I surrender” pose. “I did it, too, okay? You’re right, Vera. There are a lot of cyber sleuths who were as interested in Odilie’s personal life as you and her family are. I looked at her Instagram. I know all about the makeover scene out of Clueless. There’s nothing too interesting after that shift, by the way. Odilie’s Instagram gets boring again. Though, she does move to New York.” Sam starts clearing the plates, bringing them to the kitchen, dumping them in the sink.

“What the fuck?” Quinn mumbles in a voice I’m clearly not meant to hear. “You’re friends with a person whose life has been completely blown apart by this, yet you were stalking a dead lady like she was some past hookup? What is wrong with you?” Quinn’s voice is quiet, restrained, a sure sign that there’s anger simmering. Indignation.

Sam shrugs. “I was curious. I felt weird sharing info with Vera. I did my own detective work. You know I’ve always been interested in this shit. I was literally the first person you knew to begin listening to My Favorite Murder. But anyway, she’s here now.” Sam turns his head toward me. “Vera, are you mad at me for looking into this stuff instead of talking to you about it?”

I’m suddenly so immensely hungry that it’s all I can think about, as if the clink of tableware landing in the sink sparked a Pavlovian response in me. I get up without a word, and serve myself some cold eggs and bacon, sit down and practically finish the plate before answering. Quinn and Sam wait in their positions, Sam by the kitchen’s entryway, Quinn still seated, as if we’re in a painting, the moment suspended.