“That was one reason I wanted to get my degree: help some kids. Social work. Or law. Cyrus’s brother Joe is still in the pen for driving drugs. His girlfriend gave him a package, didn’t tell him what it was. One guy I knew growing up, they put him in prison. Said he died from falling and hitting his head. But his wife and kids knew the cops beat him. They couldn’t afford the autopsy.”

“I see what you mean.” There was a pause, and then Ever asked, “I hope this is okay to ask, but do you suspect anyone?”

“Everyone loved Cyrus,” Izzy said. “Except my parents, but they don’t count.”

“Why not?”

“Leanne’s crazy. Certified. Larry’s just—” She stopped herself; there was enough pain here without exposing her childhood wounds.

Ever didn’t press her. “So, you’re sure he left?”

“I found a receipt in his pocket from the motel where we used to go. Drinks for two. He never told me. And I’ve been trying to crack the code on his phone. For some reason he changed it—” She trailed off, still ashamed of this fact, confused by it, and she was grateful that Ever didn’t ask any further questions. They sat in silence for a while.

Then he pointed above their heads at the ejaculating night sky. She closed her eyes to wish on a star. But, as she’d wondered the night before, what could she wish for now?

Ever kissed her, lightly at first, and for a long time, then ran his hands over her head, slid them down her neck and across the bone necklace of her clavicles. “It’s called the beauty bone,” he said. She could hear his breath grow ragged. He eased her onto the pile of sleeping bags, still kissing her, moving his fingers over her breasts—the aureoles felt tender, the nipples rose to meet him. She was already wet, had been since they’d come up here on the rooftop. What was this desire she felt for this man, this stranger? It ached in the dark loam of her like a seed, and spread its roots through her limbs, into her fingertips, toes. It was almost like someone else’s body had overtaken her.

“Is this all right?” he asked.

She nodded against his jaw, already scratchy again with stubble.

He slid down and nuzzled her with his whole face—the angled thrust of his nose and cheekbones and chin, the soft of his eyelids and lips—drew her thighs together so that the sensation of fullness intensified, then with his nose pushed the small piece of cloth aside and slid his tongue over the patch of hair, parting her vulva and finding her clitoris.

“I want to make you come,” he said.

“What about you?”

“Just you first. Relax.”

She couldn’t remember Cyrus having ever said this to her.