I shift away from him. Does he really believe that? Does he really think I can believe it? “You really never tried to find her, after she left?”

He sighs, as if I’ve disappointed him. “I tried calling her, obviously,” he says. “She never picked up. Misha said she didn’t want to talk to anyone.” This gets my attention. Maybe Misha was more attuned to her former best friend than she claims. Turning back to the bar, Brent fiddles with a damp cocktail napkin. “The funny thing is, Misha and I weren’t even close until Kaycee ran off.” He takes a long pull of his drink. “Tragedies do that, I guess. Bond you with people. I think she was hoping it would do more than bond us.”

I think of surprising Brent and Misha together at the Dell. Brent was either comforting her or pleading with her—I couldn’t tell which. They looked close then. But even then I had the impression that Kaycee was with them; that she was hovering, unseen, outside the circle of their bodies. That they’d been talking about her.

“Is that what it was, when Kaycee left? A tragedy? At the diner, you seemed happy about it.”

“Never stop being a lawyer, do you?” He says it jokingly, but I can hear the reprimand. “Can’t it be both? I was…happy, to be free of her. But it was tragic that it got to that point. She…destroyed things. Do you know what I mean?”

For a moment I imagine Kaycee coaxing Chestnut toward her with treats. How furious she was when Chestnut began to snap and growl. There’s something wrong with that dog. It’s probably rabid. Someone should shoot it.

“Yes,” I say simply. Then, without thinking: “Did you ever love her?”

Brent is quiet for a while. He stirs his drink and then empties it in one swallow. Finally he looks at me.

“What did I know? I was young.” Now his smile has left behind a lingering exhaustion. “Can you love someone who isn’t capable of loving you back?”

Funnily enough, it’s my father who comes to mind. Do dogs go to heaven? I asked him once, my throat raw from crying after Chestnut died.

No, he replied shortly. But afterward he took a plastic garbage bag from the toolshed and bundled Chestnut’s body inside of it, and told me to get the shovel. We walked down to the lip of the reservoir, and in silence he made a grave and lowered Chestnut into it. Heaven is for redeemed sinners, he said, after hours of silence. Dogs don’t need it. They live their whole lives in heaven.

And I loved him more then than I’ve ever loved anyone.

“Oh, sure,” I say. My drink tastes like hair spray. I’ve let it sit too long. “I think that’s probably the realest love of all.”

—

Outside, the sun is just setting, and a golden glow lingers over the parked cars.

“Listen, Abby.” Brent seizes my hand when I’ve already said good-bye—embarrassed, in the sudden light, that I’ve said anything or called him at all. He takes a step closer to me, and for a second, I’m sure he’s going to kiss me. “I know you’re here for blood, okay? You’re not going to find anything.”