In the hallway, hoping there wasn’t a housekeeper anywhere near to witness her quick steps into the next nearest bathroom, Eileen tried to piece together what had happened after she and Simon had kissed on the couch. With the door shut behind her, she wiggled into her black capri pants, and sand from the night before spilled from the wide cuff and onto the gray tiled floor. She turned on the faucet and gazed at her reflection in the silver-framed mirror, scanning her bloodshot eyes for some memory that would send her running from this house in embarrassment.

There was nothing, a black hole where the end of last night should be stored. “You have to stop drinking so much.”

Downstairs in the expansive kitchen, ready to kill for a cup of coffee, Eileen stared down the complicated espresso machine. She reached out and pressed a random button, but the hulking box of stainless steel didn’t blink.

“Goddammit, you piece of shit,” she whispered. “I would throw you off the balcony for a fifteen-dollar Mr. Coffee and a package of Folgers right now.”

“Do you want some help with that?”

Eileen gasped and turned around; Simon, looking haggard and hungover, held up his hand in apology.

“Sorry,” he said. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Christ,” Eileen exhaled as her shoulders sagged.

She shook her head and closed her eyes. The rush of adrenaline drove a headache like an ice pick through her temples. Eileen pressed the soft spots on either side of her head and nodded at her brother-in-law. “Yes, please,” she said and stepped out of the way so he could bring life to the complicated machine holding the caffeine hostage.

Simon nodded. “But first,” he said as he opened one of the drawers on the far side of the enormous island. He pulled out a small bottle and shook it. The pills it contained rattled with the promise of pain relief. He popped the lid and shook out several brown pills into his palm. He walked over to her, pinched two between his fingers and thumb, and held them out for her.

“Thank you,” she whispered, scanning his eyes for any hints of guilt, regret, soul-crushing levels of mortification—but there was only his same dark-ringed grief. She took the pills and popped them in her mouth, swallowing hard and wishing she’d waited for the glass of water he was now getting them both from the fridge.

“I suppose it’s safe to say we both had way too much to drink last night,” Simon said as he handed her the icy cold glass and took a long swig from his own. “I’m sorry, by the way.”

She tried to decipher what his apology might be for. For getting drunk? For crying on her shoulder? For having sex with his dead wife’s sister?