But while she’d been waiting at the hospital she’d gotten a text from Jake asking her to come right away. She had a bad feeling, especially since Harry had been asking all those questions. Had it been Jake that Harry had seen in front of the motel? Nothing would shock her right now.

And now he wanted her to come to his condo, something he’d never asked. It could only be bad news.

Alice had thought it possible, after hearing that her husband had died, that Jake had been responsible. They’d had that conversation about Bill and the girl down in New York, and she’d seen something in Jake’s eyes, that loyalty he’d always had, that told her he might do something about it. If he had done it, he’d done a good job of making it look like an accident. But then, Jake had probably gone and killed Bill’s girlfriend who’d come up from New York for the funeral. That was a stupid move, drawing more attention to Bill’s death, and probably drawing attention away from Annie and Lou Callahan. And then she’d gotten the call late last night about Harry, and she’d wondered if Jake had something to do with that as well. He was spinning out of control. She’d immediately called him, left him a message telling him to meet her at the hospital, and he had, though she’d yet to be able to truly talk with him. But she’d seen him. He looked terrible when she spotted him in the entranceway, like he hadn’t slept in days. His eyes were bloodshot, and he even smelled bad, like something had gone rotten inside of him.

She pulled in front of his unit in the condo parking lot and stared up at the faded grey wood of the four-unit development, and the flat, white sky above it. This is where my mother died, she thought, surprising herself. Usually, when she thought of the condo, she thought of the beautiful years she had lived here with Jake. It had been one of the happiest times of her life, even though a part of her now knew that it had all been lies, like so much else in her life.

She stepped out onto the parking lot, smoothed her skirt down along her thighs, and locked the car behind her.

She walked across the asphalt, gritty with sand, then up the exterior stairway to Jake’s door. She rang the bell, and listened to the familiar bong from inside the condo.

The door opened. Jake was standing there, his suit jacket rumpled, his eyes puffy. His mouth looked slack, hanging open slightly, and the white hairs of his mustache had grown over his upper lip.

“Jake?” she said.

“I screwed up,” he said. “I screwed up everything.”