The sound had settled down by the time I turned onto Broad Street, but then I found myself less than half a block from the clot of ambulances, police cars, and a fire truck. I froze. From where I stood, it looked like a horrific accident between a minivan and a delivery truck. I saw a stretcher and although I couldn’t see the person it carried, in my mind it was Emily Maxwell’s bloody body being loaded into the ambulance. I backtracked and took a cross street to avoid walking past the wreck, but it was really too late. The damage was done. My knees threatened to buckle. The whole world spun and I had to stop walking, pressing my body against the wall of a building to stay upright. I looked around for a bench I could sink onto, but there were none. Instead, I stood there, eyes closed, waiting for the worst of the dizziness to pass.

I thought I had myself under control by the time I reached the gallery, but as soon as I entered the foyer, Oliver looked up from his computer, eyes wide.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, pulling out his earbuds.

I shook my head. “Nothing.”

“Bull,” he said. “Are you sick? Your face is white.”

I sat down next to the table that held my paints and brushes. My palms were damp and I wiped them on my jeans. “I just saw an accident,” I said. “The aftermath, anyhow. It shook me up.”

“I heard the sirens,” he said. “Where was it?”

“Broad Street. I didn’t really look. I … accidents … I…” I looked away from him. I wasn’t sure what I’d intended to say.

He bent forward, elbows on his knees, searching my face. “You what?” he prompted. “Were you in an accident?” I could see the concern in his eyes.

I nodded.

“When … oh. The DUI?”

I nodded again. “It was so terrible, Oliver,” I said. “We almost killed someone.”

“What happened?” He straightened up again, all of his attention still on me.

Before I could stop myself, I began talking. “I’d been at a party with my boyfriend, and … we’d both had too much to drink.” I twisted my hands together in my lap. “I turned my car keys over to him. I thought maybe he was more sober than I was. Neither of us should have been driving. I was so stupid.”

Oliver frowned. “He was driving?”

“Yes, he was driving.” My voice sounded bitter. “And he drove too fast. About sixty miles per hour in a thirty-five-mile-per-hour zone. He went right through a stop sign at this intersection, and he crashed into a car. We nearly killed the girl who was driving it. She was in a coma for two months and now she’s paralyzed from the waist down. For life.” I looked over at him. “For ever and ever,” I added quietly.