At least Quentin’s mother wasn’t alive to see this—her son in the lead role of psycho killer. As a journalist, Robin found it troubling how quickly the press had jumped on Quentin Garrison, bending and molding him into something that had to be so much simpler than who he was. She wondered if Quentin had seen the newspapers wherever he was. And as a daughter, she had to admit, she hoped he had. She couldn’t find it in her to fret too much over inaccurate press coverage when it came to the man who’d murdered her father. But she did feel sorry for the people in his life who had trusted him. His friends. That handsome husband. Had they known he’d just implode?

Robin’s phone extension buzzed. Eileen, again. “You okay, sweetie?” she said for probably the tenth time today—a real achievement considering it was only 11:00 A.M.

Robin quit out of the article as though Eileen could see her screen. “Fine,” she said. “Just coming up with column ideas.”

Eileen said, “How do you feel about the idea of writing a personal essay?”

Robin’s jaw tightened. Last night, she and Eric had sat bolt upright in bed, awakened by a scream. Robin had hurried into the guest room to find Mom still asleep, thrashing and mumbling. She’d tried to wake her. Mom? she’d said. You’re having a nightmare.

But Renee had stayed trapped in the dream. Put it out, her mother had said in a rough, unfamiliar voice, her eyelids fluttering open and shut. Put out the motherfucking fire. Her whole life up until that moment, Robin had never once heard Renee swear.

Some personal essay that would be.

“I’ll think about it,” Robin said.

Eileen didn’t say anything for several seconds. “You know what, Robbie?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t want a personal essay.”

Robin exhaled.

“To tell the truth, I really hope something happens to knock this story out of the headlines, so we can all just go back to normal.”

Robin smiled. She’d arrived at work to a big flower arrangement on her desk—lilacs and white roses, her favorites. There had also been a sympathy card from the whole office, but clearly it had been engineered by Eileen, who was the only one in this place who knew what her favorite flowers were. “Maybe Beyoncé will drop an album,” Robin said.

“I’m praying to her as we speak.”

“You’re a good friend, Eileen.”

“Stop it.”

“I mean it,” she said. “Also, I never thanked you for the flowers.”

“What? Oh . . .”

“Seriously. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Actually, hon,” Eileen said, “the flowers were from your hubby.”