Back in her room, Caitlin lay on the freshly made-up bed and stared at the ceiling, striped with the low sun coming in through the motel’s cheap venetian blinds. She wanted to talk with Grace and found that she couldn’t, that the words in her head weren’t coming. The thought that she’d never talk with Grace again swept through her, and she cried again, then napped, waking in the dark. She was hungry and remembered that there was half a Monte Cristo in the minifridge from one of her meals at the diner. She ate two bites of the cold, congealed sandwich, then threw it out. Her stomach felt as small as a hard rubber ball.

She switched on the television, found a station that was playing a Modern Family rerun, and left it there, the volume turned low. She answered texts from friends, from work, and from her mom and brother. She saw that her father had called and not left a message. It pissed her off. Why wouldn’t he leave a message after his daughter, her twin sister, had died? Why wouldn’t he tell her to call him immediately? She could hear his voice—I didn’t want to upset you more, Caity. I know what you must be going through—and decided to not call him back.

The Modern Family episode ended, and another one immediately began. She was tired again, and almost texted Harry to tell him not to come over. But no, she did want to see him one more time. But she wouldn’t let him in. That thing that had happened on their walk now seemed like lunacy to her. Was she drunk from two beers? Yes, he was handsome, and sweet, but her sister had just been killed, and he was somehow involved. When and if he came by, she’d say she was exhausted (not a lie) and just say good-bye.

She dozed some more, the television on, and woke to the sound of knocking on her door. She sat up, and looked at the alarm clock on the bedside table. It was eleven o’clock. For a few seconds she was entirely disoriented. The room was dark, except for the illumination of the wall-mounted TV, now showing a weatherman in front of a map of New England. She remembered that Harry was going to come over. She went to the door, ready to tell him that he shouldn’t come in. The kiss from earlier flashed through her mind. His hand on her neck.

She opened the door. In the exterior yellow lamplight he looked pale and young. He was wearing a hooded sweatshirt, and he was breathing hard, a hand pressed against the side of his head as though he had a headache.

“Hey, Harry,” she said. “Sorry, I’m—”

“You should leave,” he said.

“I should leave?” she repeated back, confused.