We cruised up on the Tobin Bridge, and the span reminded me of Florida, the way the water seemed to physically drop from underneath us in a rush. But not just Florida, no. This was where Inez Stone had died, screaming as bullets entered her flesh and vital organs, as she looked into the face of madness and matricide, whether she was aware of the latter or not.

Inez. Had her death been part of the plan or hadn’t it?

“So,” Desiree said, “is my philosophy nihilistic?”

I shook my head. “Fatalistic. Marinated in skepticism.”

She smiled. “I like that.”

“Glad I could oblige.”

“I mean, we all die,” Desiree said and leaned forward in her seat. “Whether we want to or not. Just a simple fact of life.”

And she reached over and dropped something soft into my lap.

I had to wait until I passed under a streetlight until I saw what it was because the fabric was so dark.

It was a T-shirt. It bore the words FURY IN THE SLAUGHTERHOUSE in white letters. It was ripped at the point where it would fall over the wearer’s right rib cage.

Desiree dug a pistol into my testicles and leaned in to me until her tongue flicked along the outer edge of my ear.

“She’s not in Florida,” she said. “She’s in a hole somewhere. She’s not dead yet, but she will be if you don’t do exactly what I say.”

“I’ll kill you,” I whispered as the bridge peaked and began its curve toward the other side of the river.

“That’s what all the boys say.”

As we looped around Marblehead Neck, the ocean boiling and belting against the rocks below, I cleared images of Angie from my head for a moment, quelled the black clouds of worry that threatened to suffocate me.

“Desiree.”

“That’s my name.” She smiled.

“You want your father dead,” I said. “Fine. Makes a certain amount of sense.”

“Thank you.”

“For a sociopath.”

“Such a sweet tongue.”

“But your mother,” I said. “Why’d she have to die?”

Her voice was thin and light. “You know how it is between mothers and daughters. All that pent-up jealousy. All the missed school plays and arguments over wire hangers.”

“But really,” I said.

She drummed her fingers on the barrel of the gun for a moment.

“My mother,” she said, “was a beautiful woman.”

“I know. I’ve seen pictures.”

She snorted. “Pictures are bullshit. Pictures are isolated moments. My mother wasn’t just physically beautiful, you dick. She was elegance incarnate. She was grace. She loved without reservation.” She sucked in a breath.

“So, why’d she have to die?”