She jerked awake, her nostrils burning, her head throbbing, and something sharp pressing painfully into her back. There was the sound of water, and the world was rocking back and forth, and she thought: I’m on a boat. And then she remembered the parking lot, and Mr. Bergeron. She was nauseous, spit pooling under her tongue, and she shut her eyes. The darkness closed in, then her nostrils were burning again, and she shook her head, her body tensing.

“Hi, Alice. You awake?”

She tried to say something but all that came out was a groan. She opened her eyes again—the nausea had begun to pass—and found she was able to keep them open. She could see a sky filled with stars, the dim figure of Mrs. Bergeron crouched over her, her face ravaged by cancer, wearing a woolen hat on her head. Sitting up, Alice looked around, the twisting motion of her neck making her head hurt worse. They were far out in the ocean, the outboard motor silent, with no sign of land in any direction. Mrs. Bergeron slid back and seated herself across from Alice. Water sloshed in the bottom of the boat.

“Where am I?” Alice asked.

“This is right around where Gina drowned, more or less,” Mrs. Bergeron said. “I thought you’d remember it.”

“You know I don’t,” Alice said.

Mrs. Bergeron sighed, then coughed, four sharp, dry hacks that didn’t sound healthy. Alice knew she was dying from bronchial cancer, because Mrs. Bergeron had come by and visited her shortly after Bill had died. She’d confronted her about Bill’s death, telling Alice she knew she had something to do with it, just as she’d had something to do with her daughter Gina’s death twenty years earlier. It was disconcerting, the visit, but not surprising. Over the years, Vivienne Bergeron had accused Alice of being with Gina the night she had drowned many times. But for the previous ten years Alice had barely heard from her, and she had almost begun to believe that she’d never hear from her again. But Mrs. Bergeron had come to Grey Lady, wrapped in a too-big raincoat, the yellow skin of her face barely concealing the skull underneath. Alice had invited her in, listened to her rant, and, as she always did, attempted to be civil. She’d asked after her health, and Mrs. Bergeron said she had bronchial cancer, and was happy to leave a world where people like Alice Moss got away with murder. Alice wondered if the old woman’s mind was going, as well as her body.

“You can tell the truth now, Alice,” Mrs. Bergeron said from the other side of the boat. “It’s just you and me.” The wind off the ocean snatched at the faint words, but Alice could still hear them.

“Your husband,” Alice said, remembering him from the condo parking lot. “Where . . . ?”