“Kids are resilient,” she said.

“If you were Grace, and I pulled that performance on you, gave your child nightmares for a month probably, what would you do?”

“I’m not Grace.”

“But if you were.”

She shook her head, looked down at the beer in her hand.

“Come on,” I said.

She was still looking at the beer when she spoke. “I’d probably want you out of my life. Forever.”

We moved to the bedroom, sat in chairs on either side of the bed, both of us exhausted but still too wired to sleep.

The rain had stopped and the lights in the bedroom were off as the ice cast silver light against the windows and bathed the room in pearl.

“It’ll eat us eventually,” Angie said. “The violence.”

“I always thought we were stronger than it.”

“You were wrong. It infests you after a while.”

“You talking about me or you?”

“Both of us. Remember when I shot Bobby Royce a few years ago?”

I remembered. “You saved my life.”

“By taking his.” She took a deep drag on her cigarette. “I told myself for years that I didn’t feel what I felt when I pulled the trigger, that I couldn’t have.”

“What’d you feel?” I said.

She leaned forward in the chair, her feet on the edge of the bed, and hugged her knees.

“I felt like God,” she said. “I felt great, Patrick.”

Later, she lay in bed with the ashtray on her abdomen, staring up at the ceiling while I remained in the chair.

“This is my last case,” she said. “Least for a while.”

“Okay.”

She turned her head on the pillow. “You don’t mind?”

“No.”

She blew smoke rings at the ceiling.

“I’m so tired of being scared, Patrick. I’m so tired of all that fear turning into anger. I’m exhausted by how much all of it makes me hate.”

“I know,” I said.

“I’m tired of dealing with psychotics and deadbeats and scumbags and liars on a continual basis. I’m starting to think that’s all there is in the world.”

I nodded. I was tired of it, too.

“We’re still young.” She looked over at me. “You know?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re still young enough to change if we want. We’re young enough to get clean again.”

I leaned forward. “How long have you felt this way?”

“Ever since we killed Marion Socia. Maybe ever since I killed Bobby Royce, I don’t know. But a long time. I’ve felt so dirty for so long, Patrick. And I didn’t used to.”

My voice was a whisper. “Can we get clean, though, Ange? Or is it already too late?”

She shrugged. “It’s worth a try. Don’t you think?”

“Sure.” I reached across and took her hand. “If you think so, it’s worth it.”

She smiled. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

“Back at you,” I said.

“I sat up in Angie’s bed with a start.

“What?” I said, but no one was talking to me.

The apartment was still. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move. I turned and looked at the far window. As I stared at the frozen panes, dark leaf silhouettes pressed flat against the glass, then snapped back into the darkness as the poplar tree outside bowed in the wind.