He starts in on the song, a song I know by heart, that pulls at every fiber of my being so that I’m now standing directly in front of the TV set. His voice isn’t the same. It isn’t like butter, rich and delicious, as it used to be. It’s hoarse. He can’t hit his high notes anymore, so he sings it low, raw. He sounds like me. When he gets to my verse, his pitch changes and falls even lower. Watching, I’m like a string on that guitar, wrenched taut. Softly, so very quietly, I sing the chorus with him and go into the next verse. He looks up, directly at the camera, and it’s like he’s looking right at me through the lens.

The song ends, much too soon, and I become aware of a presence behind me. I turn to see Bonnie, mussed from sleep and a kind of wonder glazing her eyes. “You’re her,” she says. “You’re the woman on the song with that singer. The one he recorded before he got shot. Because you were in Detroit!”

I don’t say anything to this. But my silence is confirmation enough.

“Everyone’s obsessed with this story,” she says, moving closer. “He said he couldn’t find you, after. He said he didn’t even know your last name.”

“You should get some sleep,” I say.

“Nora . . . I didn’t know you sang.”

“I don’t. Not anymore.” Again, this comes out wrong, as my words so often do with this girl a part of me so badly wants to reach. I soften my voice. “Nobody wants to hear a woman over thirty sing a song. Number one rule of the music business: Be young.”

She giggles. Reaches up and pulls her hair into a bun, forgetting about the mark on her neck, which she has been careful to conceal before this.

“New boyfriend?” I ask, nodding to the hickey.

“Girlfriend, actually. Maybe. Her name is Alix.”

“What happened to Tommy, your old boyfriend? The one I met.”

“Oh, him. We broke up.”

“Because of Alix?”

“No, because of us. Our relationship was over. It’s tough to do long distance, with me being in Toronto. So we broke up, but it was a mutual kinda thing. You don’t have a problem with me dating a girl, do you?” Her gaze is direct, unflinching.

“I don’t have a problem with you dating anybody.” I think of Krista Dennings and her tall French wife. If that’s what’s in store for Bonnie, I’m more than happy with it.

She smiles. “The thing is, I’m not even sure that we’re officially dating or anything yet. So I’m not ready to tell my parents about Alix . . .”

“No problem. I won’t say anything.”