“I know,” I said. I wasn’t sure which part of that I was acknowledging. Maybe all of it, with a sad kind of acceptance. “Sorry.”

She’d always had her friends with her. Gina, Jennifer, any of a dozen other hangers-on circling the orbit of Monica, Center of the Universe. She’d always been invulnerable, armored up in attitude and trendy clothing and makeup and gloss. Always the one doing the damage.

Maybe I should have taken some satisfaction at having brought her to this, alone, on her knees.

I didn’t.

“I’ll—send somebody,” I said. I didn’t know who I could possibly send, but it didn’t matter; she didn’t hear me. I looked back to see her pitch forward in slow motion, catch herself on one arm, and then roll over on her side on the carpet. Her legs slowly pulled up toward her stomach.

She started to cry in hopeless, gulping whoops.

Jesus.

I pulled in a deep, resigned breath, and went back to the couch, where I retrieved the blanket. I settled it over her, found a box of tissues and brought them to her. Then I poured her a stiff drink from an open bottle of Scotch on the counter at the back of the room—vampires liked their alcohol as much as humans, but they had a much better class of the stuff. This was single malt, and it smelled like smoke.

“Come on,” I said, and hauled her upright to lean against the sofa’s corner. I pressed the Scotch into one hand, pulled a couple of tissues out and stuffed them in the other hand. “Drink.”

She did, obeying like a child; she choked on the first sip, but got it down, and then took a second, between gasps and shudders. A little awareness came back into her eyes, and a flash of something like shame. She used the tissues to wipe her nose, then got another to blot at her eyes. The tears were still coming, and her eyes were red and swollen. Never mind what the movies say—girls don’t get prettier when they cry. That made her more … human.

“Why’d you come?” she asked, finally, when the whiskey was down to a thin amber line at the bottom of the glass. Calmer now, maybe artificially, but at least she wasn’t shaking like she was about to come apart. “Why not Claire? She’s the nice one.” She tried to make it sound like an insult, but her heart wasn’t in it.

“I figured maybe—”

“Maybe this would make you feel better about your sister?” she asked, and drained the last of the alcohol. “How’s that going for you?” Her hand was trembling.

I didn’t answer. I was seriously considering getting myself a shot, which was all kinds of wrong. Monica held out the empty glass to me, and I put it aside.

“I was hoping for a refill,” she said.

“You don’t need one. Last thing you need is to be drunk right now.”

“Speaking from experience?”