Her mother was heading home tonight—there was no stopping that, so Eric and Robin had insisted on joining her. But it was good to see that she wasn’t pushing herself to pack just yet. Renee said, “Did you hear about him?”

Robin sat down on the couch beside her. Tried to read her face. “Yes,” she said. “I did.”

“That poor boy. He never had a chance.”

Robin looked at her. On the way home, she’d read as many articles as she could about her parents’ shooting—making up for lost time—and she’d learned that an anonymous caller had spotted Quentin driving through her parents’ neighborhood the night of the murders and, at another point, stopped in front of the Blooms’ home. As though he were staking it out. “Mom,” Robin said. “He killed Dad in cold blood. And he tried to kill you.”

But she didn’t appear to hear her. “Such a violent, ugly way to go. He can’t even have an open casket.”

“Are you okay?” Robin said.

Renee stood up. “Not really,” she said, moving toward the stairs. “There’s been too much death lately. That poor boy. It isn’t fair to anyone.” She shook her head and trudged upstairs, her thoughts as much a mystery as ever.

AS RENEE LAY napping upstairs, Robin heard Eric’s footsteps jogging up to the door. She’d been reading a Jodi Picoult book she’d bought a few months ago and it had been nice, getting lost in the pages, avoiding the flood of messages and news alerts, the inescapable, constant buzz. Her mother wasn’t on social media—barely ever even checked her email, and Robin felt she lived a better life for it, especially now.

“I’ve been trying to call you,” he said. “Your voice mail is full.”

“I don’t even know where I put my phone.”

“You’ve heard the news,” he said. “Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

He headed into the kitchen. “Your mom must be relieved,” he called out from inside.

“You’d think so, but not really,” Robin said.

“It probably just hasn’t hit her yet.”

He came out with two glasses of wine.

“How did you know what I wanted?”

“It doesn’t take a mind reader.”

Robin took a long sip, the wine white and crisp and cold. Eric sat next to her on the couch and put an arm around her. They drank in silence for several minutes. “I should probably order a pizza,” he said.

“How about Chinese?”

“You got it.”

He didn’t move, though. “I’ve got a proposition for you.”

Robin smiled. “My mom is literally right upstairs.”

“No. I mean . . . Don’t you think it’s time we got out our side of the story?”

She took a swallow of wine. “What do you mean?”

“There are wingnuts on Twitter still saying that Garrison shot your parents because of your column.”

“Who cares?”