“I wish I had something like that,” I said. “Art, or something I cared about.”

“What do you do?” he said.

“I’m a barista,” I said. “Impressive, right?”

“Nothing wrong with that,” he said.

“I guess. I might go back to school, I don’t know. I should try to save up and take some classes.”

“The porn is how I’m paying off my student loans. That’s why I got into it. Not a lot of money in experimental film. Or community television.”

“What’s it like, making porn?”

“It’s easy. Anybody can build a website. And it’s fun. Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“Well, the people aren’t always the most stable group, emotionally. Or, like, showing up for work. Personalities to deal with, egos, drugs, shit like that.”

“How did Danielle deal with being around drugs? I got the impression she avoided all that.”

“It didn’t bother her. She smoked weed a little. She never did meth, like some of them did. I had to make a rule, no meth on set or you’re fired. It’s tough for them—I understand it, why they want to get high. But when they’re spun they act like a bunch of three-year-olds. Complaining, demanding attention. Danielle had a sense of humor about it. You have to, basically, to stay in it for long.”

“Could any of those guys have hurt Danielle?”

“I’ve thought about it and thought about it. I don’t think so. They’re pussies, when it comes down to it. They never tried to stand up to her. I mean, she was so confident, and sweet. They respected her. I have no idea who could’ve killed her.”

“Even if they were cranked up? Even Anthony?”

“It’s hard to imagine . . . any of it. I keep thinking she’ll walk through the door.”

I looked towards the door. It was easy to imagine her there, her hair shining, a smirk on her face. Brandon picked a cold tortilla chip from the basket and dropped it. It broke in half on top of the other chips and settled in, camouflaged among its brothers and sisters.

“You know,” I said, “I hung out with her one time in the last two years. Two days later, she was dead.”

“Jesus.”

“I keep thinking it’s my fault, somehow. I know that doesn’t make sense.”

“Well, did you kill her?”

“No. Of course not.”

“There you go, then.”

“How long were y’all together?” I asked.

“About four months. But it’s not like she was my girlfriend. We fucked. Everybody fucks everybody.”

“She liked you,” I said.

“Yeah? What’d she say?”

“That you’re a good guy. You’re talented. She told me you’re going to be big, you’re going to make real movies.”

“She said that?”

He leaned forward, eager for this little piece of information. I nodded. Tiny details became so important when nothing else was left.

“It’s crazy,” he said. “One day she was there, and the next day, cops are everywhere, her makeup’s still all over the bathroom like she’s coming home any second, they’re telling me she’s . . .”