Back home I put my clean clothes away. I began to tidy my shoes, lining them in pairs on the floor of the closet. The corners of the closet were dusty, so I got the broom and dustpan, and then the trash needed taking out, and I spilled coffee grounds on my shirt. I took it off to try to wash it in the sink and I tripped over a pile of shoes I had moved in order to sweep, and banged my knee against the bed. “Motherfucker,” I said aloud. I kicked the shoes into a corner, the shirt with it, and started to cry.

If I had said something years ago, when I first found out about Danielle’s uncle, if I had convinced her to go to the police, then maybe he would have been in prison a long time ago. I never thought about it at the time. But I should have. How many girls had he hurt in Colorado?

I put on running clothes and went out in the heat of the day. I circled the zoo and the fountain, feeling the toxins sweating out of my body. I was punishing myself. I ran alongside the art museum. Its cool stone rose from the sidewalk, making me feel small and ephemeral. Usually it was a nice contrast from everything that was cheap and new, from brainless nights of television, takeout dinners from the strip mall, the irritating whine of mosquitoes. But today I didn’t find it comforting. I wondered if Danielle had even known her uncle was in prison, and if she did, how she felt about it. She and Audrey both were good at making light of serious things. Maybe that’s why they liked each other so much. They could just do drugs and hang out, gliding along the surface.

I never got addicted to drugs when Danielle did. After a couple of days of being high, I wanted a break. I craved order, time alone, exercise. Danielle just wanted more pills. I knew it wasn’t any kind of strength of character. I wasn’t better than her. We both did whatever we felt like. It was only luck that what I wanted was not as dangerous. I used to think she was the lucky one, with her rich mom, her fancy house, her beauty and popularity. Things looked different now. Poor Danielle. The thing with her uncle, getting addicted to dope, even getting caught, all of that was bad luck. There were plenty of illegal things I had done, but I never went to prison. And now the murder. It was like she was cursed.

I slowed to a walk for the last half mile, breathing hard, feeling weak and thirsty and sad, but calmer. Until I saw Michael sitting on my steps. An iced coffee sweated in his hand. He was wearing sunglasses. I couldn’t see his eyes.

“Hey,” he said.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I said.

“I wanted to talk to you.”