“I just want it all to go away. Talking about it gives it a little chair where it can sit right next to us. And you might want to rehash it because you have a heroic role. But I’m the flaky broad who leaves her back door open in a sketchy neighborhood. Then forgets all those practical moves we learned in that self-defense class years ago. He was so big, and he got me from behind, and I know there was probably a tricky move to get out of that hold—something that KGB wife would use in that TV show you like.”

“The Americans.”

“Right. Like she’d grind her heel down hard on his little toe. Reach around to pinch some little thing in his neck. Instead I was confused and powerless. And now I’m a victim, a survivor. I hate that. I mean, of course I’m grateful you came along, but why couldn’t I have done him in myself?”

“Well, yes. That would’ve saved me quite a bit of trouble. But that’s not how it went down. You got sandbagged. I had to step in. That’s it. I don’t want you jumbling all the credit and debit around anymore. Everything has already happened. Forward is the only direction. I don’t know if it’s helpful to look back. When I do, it’s a giant ball of horror in my head. How crazy they were, the terrible smell, just the wrongness of them being in this room. It’s not like I had a tactical plan. I didn’t have any time to sort things out. All I could do was improvise. And there’s a hundred details I still can’t remember. Like after I sprayed the woman, where did she go screaming? When the cops arrived, I told them they should look around the house—upstairs maybe. Or in the basement. I thought she was still around somewhere. But she’d gotten away. Even bashing him. I can only remember it in a very general way. I was just a crazed basher. I made a huge mess.”

“I forgive you for sullying my kitchen in order to save my life.”

“Yeah, yeah. You hate being the victim? Well, it’s not all peaches on my side. The culture has co-opted being a hero. I’m in a cheesy category. That stupid TV show they got me to go on. And this week I got an invitation to join a Facebook page called Women Who’ve Killed.”

“New friends!”

The only way midnight—in this case the shift from one year into the next—is signified in the kitchen is the inconspicuous guitar chord notification tone indicating a text coming in from Dana. Cate ignores this. They go on painting.