“Ev—I think I know who gave Mom a ride here. I think she may have left.”

Evan was quiet for a moment. But then—

“I don’t care! We still have to find her. You’re still going to look for her, right?”

“Yes. Of course. I promised you I would.”

More silence. She couldn’t tell him why she’d called, that she had dug so deeply into the hollow spaces they were nearly all that was left of her. And that she didn’t think she would survive it. Not this time.

“Evan?” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Just keep your shit together, okay? I’m sorry I called. I’m so sorry . . .”

Then a knock at the door. And Reyes’s voice.

“Are you decent?”

Then Evan again. He’d heard it—the man’s voice.

“Who was that?”

Then Reyes.

“Are you ready?”

Nic jumped out of the bed, raced to the bathroom for a towel which she wrapped around her body. She called out to Reyes, covering the phone with her hand so Evan wouldn’t hear her.

“Just a second . . .”

Then to Evan on the phone, “I’m fine. I have to go . . . I just needed to hear your voice.” She made quick excuses, then hung up the call.

She opened the door, her hand still clutching the phone.

Reyes stood there with two cups of coffee and a disarming smile.

He walked inside, his eyes moving over her, head to toe, wrapped in the towel.

“Good morning,” he said. He set down the coffee and pulled her close.

She buried her face into the crease of his neck. She wanted to cry, with despair, or relief. All of this was disorienting.

He held her until she let go first. Then he handed her a coffee and sat on the bed.

“Are you all right? You seem upset. Is it about what happened last night?”

She told him the truth. “I don’t know.”

Had it been like all the others? She had told herself it was different somehow.

Sweet and tender. Wasn’t it? She could still hear his soft voice on warm breath. We are the same. We are just the same. Whispering in her ear as they fell onto the bed. And then the silence of his voice, but the words his body spoke as he touched her and kissed her and held her. They were kind words. Loving words. The silent conversation of lovers, not just people fucking, but making love, connected by the torture of guilt they both understood, from the role they’d played in the death of another human being. It was something few people could understand.

“It’s okay,” he said to her. “Why don’t I wait outside. You take your time. Get dressed. Come down when you’re ready and we’ll head back to town.”