Cora holds up her hands. “Hey, it’s one less person for me to worry about. Just don’t let her choke on her vomit.”

Once we’re inside my room, I help Danni out of her jacket, then she collapses on my bed. I gently take her shoes off, and then cover her with the blanket before retrieving a bottle of water for her from my mini-fridge. “Drink as much as you can,” I urge her. “You’ll thank me in the morning.”

She gives it a try, but keeps missing her mouth with the water, which drips right down her neck to pool on the sheets. With a disgusted scoff, she passes the bottle back to me.

I kneel in front of the bed and methodically stroke her hair. I remember the sensation of being far too drunk well; the nausea as the world tips and keeps tipping. The roaring in my ears, and the unquenchable dryness in my mouth.

“Take deep breaths,” I say. “How are you feeling?”

“Ugh.”

I turn off the bedside lamp, plunging us into darkness. Then, I climb onto the bed and lie behind her, our bodies running parallel with only an inch between us.

“You should have come to find me,” I whisper, running my fingers through her soft hair. “Why did you go off alone?”

“I was fine. And I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Danni, I…” I sigh. “You could never bother me. Promise me you’ll always come to me if you need me. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. You know that, right?”

When she replies, it’s surprisingly lucid. “No,” she murmurs. “But that’s okay. It’s enough.”

Frowning, I rub her back in a slow, steady pattern. Her breathing becomes gradually steadier and deeper, until I’m sure she’s asleep.

I’m quite certain, I realize as I look down at her rising and falling shoulders, that I’ve never hated myself as much as I do in this very moment.

THIRTY-FIVE ROSE

I message Molly when Danni falls asleep. As quietly as I can, so I don’t wake her, I tiptoe out of the room and down the hallway to Molly’s bedroom, where she’s waiting for me.

“It was like that night,” she says as soon as we’re alone.

I nod and sit heavily on the edge of her bed. It’s unmade—I think she might have been trying to sleep when I messaged her. She sits at her desk and draws her knees to her chest.

“I wanted to kill her,” I say, and she doesn’t need me to clarify I mean Harriet.

“You were afraid,” she replies. “I know exactly how that fear feels.”

Only her fear ended in an outcome far worse. Unimaginably worse.

“The thing is…” she says, studying me. “I don’t think you’ve felt anything that strongly in a long time, have you?”