Maybe Candice was stuck in traffic, a common occurrence in LA. Or maybe, God forbid, the woman had decided to bag at the last minute.

Ellie took out her phone, about to call when, from the corner of her eye, she spotted a woman wearing a pair of dark oval sunglasses and sitting on a maroon divan get to her feet and wave tentatively.

During the drive, Sebastian had shown her a picture, taken from the company website, of Candice Jackson, trim and healthy. In the photo, Candice wore a sharp charcoal gray power suit with heels, everything about her—her clothes and the way she stood and carried herself—screaming confidence.

The woman standing before Ellie looked shockingly different—and not only because her hair looked dry and brittle in the harsh sunlight. It was the amount of weight the woman had lost—not having had much weight to lose to begin with. This new Candice Jackson, with her sallow complexion and concave cheeks and bony wrists and air of defeat, reminded Ellie of her mother’s last weeks on earth at the hospital, the dementia and cancer having devoured every last ounce of fat and muscle, turning a once-vibrant woman into a balding, ghostlike waif.

Candice was sick, not with cancer but with a disease that was equally cunning and insidious and baffling. Ellie could smell the booze fumes as she offered her hand. Candice shook it, her hand as light and delicate as a bird’s wing.

“Thanks for meeting me,” Ellie said. “I really, really appreciate it.”

Candice offered a painful smile, and then she retreated to the corner of the divan, looking like she wanted to sink past the cushions and disappear. Ellie sat next to her so they could talk privately, and because Sebastian would be listening in on her conversation through her phone, which was tucked inside her clutch. Ellie removed a credit card and then subtly positioned the clutch on the divan.

“They make excellent mimosas here,” Candice said, picking up from the coffee table set up in front of them a champagne flute filled with orange juice. “You want one?”

Ellie didn’t want a drink. What she did want was to project a feeling of solidarity, make Candice Jackson feel as comfortable as possible. She smiled and said, “I think I need something a bit more high-octane for this conversation. Like bourbon.”

Ellie picked up the food menu. “What do you recommend?”

“Everything’s good. But you don’t need to buy me lunch.”

“You’re not hungry?”

“I think it’s best for me to stick with my liquid diet.”

The waiter was a good-looking guy, all smiles. Candice seemed to wither under his polite gaze, stared down at the table as she ordered two mimosas for herself. Ellie ordered a double Knob Creek, neat, then asked him to pick out a couple of appetizers in case Candice changed her mind, the woman looking like she could use a good meal.

Candice sighed as the waiter left. “I was doing so good,” she said, and shook her head. “Hadn’t had a drop in almost a month.”