Casey props herself back up onto the bar stool that’s about six inches too high for her five-foot-nothing fragile frame. She smells a bit like cigarettes, which leads me to believe her bathroom break turned into a smoke break, but I’m not judging. I could go for a drag right now myself.

“Okay, so you know I was going to eventually have to ask this. How did Decker die?”

Chapter 4

Back at the apartment, Casey and I brush our teeth. Our routines overlap like this in our one-bathroom, single-vanity apartment most days of the week, but we make do. Although the layout of this place is mildly inconvenient, neither of us is willing to suggest moving elsewhere. Because this one—this tiny one—is home.

“So, yeah,” I say, spitting into the sink. “That’s the story.”

“Damn, that’s fucking crazy,” she says, mouth full of toothpaste, waiting for her turn.

“Hence—” I wipe my chin “—why his mother would say...”

Like I said, there are a million things that bother me about Decker’s death. Especially the fact...

“...that you killed him.” Casey completes my thought, wiping her wet, leftover toothpaste from her lips with my bath towel.

Bingo.

“You going to be alright tonight?”

I nod.

“Just one thing,” I say. “I know this was a lot of information tonight. And that it was a huge surprise. But please promise not to treat me any differently now that you know it all? Just...continue to be normal around me.”

She holds up two scout’s honor fingers and states, “I, Casey Kevdale, hereby promise not to treat you any differently now that I know you are a widow.”

She drops her fingers.

“But,” she goes on, “I do hope you realize that being normal is not exactly in my repertoire.” Casey peels down her bottom lip, exposing that new tattoo she got earlier in the night. It’s a crow sitting on a telephone wire on the inside of her mouth. “Sleep well, Rosen,” she says before shutting the door to her bedroom, a subtle reminder that I am Charlotte Rosen now—not Charlotte Austin. Despite what that box in the kitchen says.

I close the door to my bedroom and invite Leno up on the mattress. Decker didn’t let him sleep in the bed—he said it was a “bad habit” dog owners get into—but I haven’t let Leno sleep anywhere besides the bed since his death. Decker and I obviously never got the chance to have kids, but with Leno, we had started a family. The reason I wanted Leno close to me after Decker died is the same reason I want him near me now—grunts, snorts, snores, and all—it’s the closest thing to having Decker still share my pillow and steal all the covers. It’s the only living, breathing thing that connects me to the man I happily married.

I unhook Leno’s collar and drape it on the bedside table. His name tag clinks against the base of my dim little lamp, the inscription on the shiny metal tag reminding me that whatever is left of the man who was so smitten with the legendary host that he vowed to name his firstborn—or dog—“Leno” is just feet away from me.