Jack died before the ambulance got there, I’m almost sure of it. I still don’t remember taking my phone out and calling 9-1-1, but a few more pieces slide into place.

I was on my knees, Jack’s blood pooling around me, soaking into my jeans and espadrilles, ruining his Superman tee made of royal blue and the softest cotton. I clutched him close to me like I could make him stay if I only held on tight enough.

“Remy, I’m sorry,” Detective Ward says, and she looks genuinely apologetic. “I just have a few more—”

“I can’t do this,” I say, barely managing the words. “I can’t, I can’t. I need to get out of here. Right now.”

“Okay,” Vera says, eyes growing wide. “Okay, let’s get you out of here.”

“Please,” I say.

“Call me if you have any further questions,” Vera says to Detective Ward while ushering me out of the interrogation room. Neither of us waits for her reaction.

I was on my knees, Jack’s blood pooling around me. The life fading out of his eyes. I clutched him tight, pressed our bodies close for the last time.

I was on my knees, Jack’s blood pooling around me. I begged and begged for him to stay. But he couldn’t hear me anymore. Sirens wailed in the distance.

I was on my knees, Jack’s blood pooling around me. Elise put a hand on my shoulder, said, “Everything ’s going to be okay, Remy. Everything ’s going to be okay now.”

59.

The ride home is silent, tense, the four of us ignoring one another. Christian is flying out to Providence tomorrow but none of us are in the proper send-off mood. At home, my parents begin to bicker almost immediately. I go straight to my room upstairs, try to shut them out. But at the same time, their angry voices bring me a strange kind of comfort not unlike the steady drip of a leaky faucet, irritating but dependable. They argue, and it’s about the only constant I can rely on in my life. This I can handle.

I can’t make out every word they’re saying but I have a general idea what they’re fighting about. Jack’s funeral is on Sunday. Mom wants us to make a quick appearance at the service, then leave, but Dad says I should be allowed to go to all of it—the memorial, the viewing, the service and reception after.

They start there but quickly move on to the usual haunts, petty squabbles about time spent at the office or hospital, about who is the worst parent. Even now, after everything that’s happened, they’re still focused on themselves.

Something Elise said about her father comes to me now: It had nothing to do with me. It never did. It didn’t matter if I was the perfect daughter or not, because nothing was ever going to be enough for him. When I got older, I saw the pattern. If he was having a bad day, he’d make sure I’d have one too.