“Go to hell,” Bo mumbled, but the words felt weak and stupid coming out of his mouth.

Inside the restaurant and oblivious to the large man staring at him outside the window, Woodruff lifted his fork to his mouth and laughed at something the woman said. If his custody ruling from a few hours earlier was bothering him, the judge was disguising his concern well.

As the rain began to pick up, Bo forced his legs to move down the sidewalk. Woodruff hadn’t seen him. Hadn’t even noticed him.

I feel invisible, Bo thought, passing by three twentysomething young men who likewise didn’t bother to glance at him.

After walking another two blocks, Bo came to his white Toyota Sequoia. He clicked the electronic entry button and collapsed into the front seat. He was so tired. He started the car and gazed over the windshield for a long time, not seeing anything. The rain was now pouring, but he didn’t turn on his wipers. He gazed forward, unable to see anything now, and wondered if he was staring at his future.

No light. No visibility. No path to take.

No life . . .

In the days after Jazz’s murder, he’d considered suicide but hadn’t been able to do it. He couldn’t orphan his children.

Now they’re gone anyway . . .

He sighed and placed his forehead on the steering wheel. “And they’re better off,” Bo said out loud, wrinkling his nose as the scent of the whiskey on his breath filled the close confines of the SUV.

Bo formed images of T. J. and Lila in his mind and held on to them like a lifeline, trying to remember Judge Woodruff’s last comments and Burgess Cloud’s upbeat outlook.

Six months, he thought. If I can get my life in order in six months . . .

He closed his eyes. When the pictures that formed behind his lids switched to Jazz in her bloodstained cream dress, he gritted his teeth and forced his thoughts back to his daughter.

Lila had been a shell of herself since her mother’s death, and regardless of whether she lived with her grandparents or with Bo, she was going to continue to need psychological counseling, which she now attended three times a week. Her grades had slipped, and she had missed a number of days of school with a mystery stomach ailment that her psychologist thought was a result of the stress caused by trauma. As he thought back to the days after Jazz’s murder and holding Lila in his arms while she cried, Bo finally broke down.

“I’m s-s-so sorry,” he whispered, letting out a hollow sob. “So . . . sorry.”

A few seconds later, the fatigue and alcohol finally did him in, and the world, like the view out his front windshield, went dark.

The sound of the car horn jarred him awake.