I escape through the back door, but the outside is no better. Damp air and petrichor zap my nerves: a hotwire of nausea, crushed hydrangeas, decay, denial, soggy mulch. Even in death, Nick is still spoiling things.

Locked in my car, I flip the visor mirror to check—and, yes, my jawbone is flushed, my neck covered in welts. I broke out in hives in college, had panic attacks, too. Couldn’t get it under control, even in medical school, where Step exams were so excruciating that I categorically eliminated considering a career in academic medicine, or any specialization requiring a fellowship, for that matter. I built a life around quality of life. Hives weren’t part of the plan.

Green light after green light all the way home. I’m trying hard to remember what my next move is supposed to be, but I’m so tired. We’re all tired. We need sound, dreamless sleep. I inhale this ozone-bright rain smell and get hung up on memories of bliss in those days after Nick’s death, when none of us knew he was dead. I just thought I was free. Silly me.

Maybe the air is to blame, but when I grab these papers on my way out of the car, holding this document Simone forced upon me—her sales pitch, her overwrought effort to frame extortion as business—I’m overcome by sensory recall, remembering how it felt to snatch articles and ads from the guesthouse after finding Nick’s body. I’d folded them and tucked them into my back pocket with every intention of destroying them, and even though I can visualize myself visualizing myself going through with my intent, I can’t for the life of me remember if I really did it. This isn’t like me—or maybe it is. Maybe this is my new normal.

My hand is shaking when I open the door to my house. I try willing my heart back to tempo, willing those printouts destroyed. Surely I shredded them, and even if I didn’t, there’s still hope those jeans are at the bottom of my hamper, untouched. I should hurry. I should run to my closet to whack-a-mole my next risk, but my body protests. I’m just so damn tired.

No one is home. I stand alone in a giant room, listening as, one by one, the Ifs detonate inside my head. Jonah is being questioned. I am being challenged. Simone is growing bolder. Down come the pillars of my sanctuary. My job is suffering. My reputation is suffering. I’m supposed to set an example through the structural integrity of my house. My house. I’m supposed to set an example by giving away money, by giving nice speeches, by giving all my strength and support to the woman and child in my care, and I failed at this most basic level.