I swallow, and my breath quickens. “Every time I try to think of that night in Amsterdam, I can’t hold on to it,” I say finally. “It’s as though I know on an intellectual level what happened, but I can’t see any of it at will. It comes up in flashes when I don’t want it to, instead.”

“I get those flashes,” Molly says softly. “I’ll be fine, and then something reminds me of it, and it’s like I’m right back there.”

“What’s it like for you?”

She leans back on her elbows and looks at the lamp. “Like falling,” she says, the light reflecting in her eyes. “But I never hit the ground.”

“For me, it’s always been like stepping into an empty elevator shaft, but then the ground reappears beneath me straightaway.”

Molly huffs a breath through her nostrils. A humorless laugh. “But not tonight.”

“No,” I say. “Not tonight.” I lie down, flat on my back. “Molly? Do you think you could talk me through what happened that night? From the beginning?”

She surveys me in surprise. I can imagine why. How many times did she try to recount that night, months ago? How often did I interrupt, or suddenly become extraordinarily busy, or remind her in a terse voice that I was there, and I already knew?

Tonight, though, it feels different. Tonight, instead of the nothingness I’ve grown so used to, I locked eyes with fear. And, for the first time, it found me unflinching.

Although I was raised to believe that unflinching meant to remain stoic in the face of terror and despair, I’m starting to consider that perhaps it’s quite the opposite. To see fear approaching and avert one’s eyes is little more than hiding. To allow pain to engulf you when it arrives—to invite suffering now, rather than delegating it to a future version of yourself to grapple with—and still climb to your feet once the wave has washed past? That is what it truly means not to flinch.

So.

“We were at your lodge,” Molly says. “Florence had gone home early, and Harriet wanted everybody to go to that party your friend was throwing, and so you all had some pre-drinks before we left.”

Closing my eyes, I force myself to picture it.

I remember Oscar. His auburn hair cut a little shorter than he wanted it to be. The top he wore with the Renaissance art print, and the white-gold necklace with the cross on it. I remember him locking eyes with me when everyone was getting ready, and the way he cocked his head in a silent request for me to leave the room with him. And how we’d ended up walking down the street a little so we could be perfectly, completely sure we weren’t overheard.