Speaking of places that were not home, exactly—when she opened the door of the home she shared, marginally, with Tara, the wall of humidity off that same port surrendered to an assault from the air-conditioning.

Tara’s Single House was a showcase. Always full of light, but rarely noise, it was the perfect set piece for the lesbian debutante daughter of one of Charleston’s oldest families to entertain. Tara wore perfect Southern gentility like armor in battle, wielding her manners and the legacy of her family’s power as weapons in her crusade to radically change South Carolina’s criminal justice system. This house was her command center.

There was a place inside for Miriam’s purse, jacket, shoes. There wasn’t a place for her art, but she had the warehouse. Miriam had never had a home that reflected her or made space for her. She caught herself, sometimes, dreaming of vibrant walls and kitschy clutter, but asking for it felt beyond her. She’d been too well trained as a child not to intrude.

Miriam dropped her keys in a hammered silver bowl on a carved teak stool in the foyer, listening to them echo. Her foot connected with something heavy, wheeling it away. She looked down, dazed, to find her carry-on. She’d left it there earlier today, arriving home from the airport before heading straight to the warehouse to get work done. It made the house feel like an Airbnb she was checking out of. At least I won’t have to unpack, she thought a little hysterically.

At the end of the polished wood hallway, a blonde bob peeked out of a doorway.

“Babe! I’ll be off this conference call in five minutes. I have dinner being delivered any moment.” Tara didn’t yell, just projected her honey drawl down the hallway, by force of will. Her hair swung, shiny, back into her office.

Miriam pulled her own dark curls into a messy bun. Unlike Tara’s willowy frame, Miriam was very short, just over five feet, although the halo of her curls gave her the appearance of another three inches or so. She usually wore it long and big and untamed. With her small, pointy face and very large features, she resembled nothing so much as an illustration of a Lost Boy. She felt lost, now, as she sank down into a chaise longue, set adrift by the idea of returning to Carrigan’s. By the loss of Cass’s existence, somewhere, in the world.

She was ordering a Lyft to the airport when Tara sat down next to her, bumping her with a shoulder. “Hey, you.”

“Hey, you, back.” Miriam tried to move her mouth into a semblance of a smile.