The hole is absurdly large. Grave-sized. I’m not just burying the collar. I’m burying Kaycee.

I drop the collar into the dirt. And then I cover it, tamping down the earth until you would never know it had been disturbed.

I’ve only just returned to the house when I hear the distant sound of tires crunching up the studded dirt road. Brent. I have just enough time to tuck the shovel back in the shed before he comes around the side of the house, looking out of place in his work clothes, his shiny shoes covered with mud and grass.

“Abby. Thank God.” He practically runs to hug me. “I was banging on the front door. You weren’t home. No one answered. I thought—” He doesn’t have to tell me what he thought.

“I’m okay.” I mean it this time. “Just doing something I should have done a long time ago.”

“Your phone call…I can hardly think straight.” He shakes his head.

“Inside,” I tell him. He nods and follows me.

The living room is mostly empty, now stripped of everything but the furniture that was too heavy to move to the Dumpster. Brent waits while I splash water on my face. I’m surprised by my reflection. I look pale and wild, my eyes sunken from too much booze and not enough sleep.

When I return to the living room, Brent has poured two tall glasses of scotch.

“Macallan,” he says, gesturing at the bottle. “I had it in my desk. I was saving it for a special occasion…” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Well. This is an occasion.”

I don’t feel like drinking, but I take a few sips anyway.

“Tell me,” he says. “Tell me everything.”

So I do. I tell him about Tatum Klauss, and Sophie Nantes, and what I found out from Amy McMann. About the Optimal Stars, and the parties where they were carefully screened, and Misha taking some of the most troubled girls under her wing. I repeat the story she told me about Frank Mitchell, and the so-called hypothetical instance of a man wanting younger girls. By the time I’ve finished half my story, and half my glass, Brent is refilling his for a third time. His eyes are red, and he’s sweating through his shirt.

By the time I get to Kaycee, to how it fits, he can’t take it anymore and stands up.

“I need a minute,” he says, gasping. “Give me a minute.” He hurtles through the screen door. I hear him pacing, spitting out his nausea in the grass. I know exactly how he feels.

The night has come without my noticing; we’ve been sitting in the half dark, and when I stand I can hardly see to fumble on a light. Brent is still outside. No longer on the porch, he is standing motionless by his car, staring out into nothing.

Sudden dizziness forces me to sit again. My mouth is chalk-dry. The scotch doesn’t help. I reach for my bag, and the water bottle inside of it. When was the last time I ate anything? I can’t remember.