I stared at him and remembered Sarah’s message. She had told me about the woman she’d seen yesterday; she’d even called the police. I knew I was indebted to her, but I didn’t feel gratitude towards anyone right now. All that I’d felt since I’d learned that Claudia was dead was cold, hard anger. Trina Greene was gone, and Curtis Herrold had just removed himself from the picture. That left Brenda Collins as the focal point of my rage. “Can they give that bitch the death penalty?” We were quiet for a while after that.

❖

That night, Jesse ordered in four kinds of takeout, hoping that I’d eat something—anything—but all I needed was vodka. Jesse bit his lip as the night got darker and I got drunker. Norah Renfrew came by, taking my hand and telling me how sorry she was. She said much more than that, but I couldn’t take in the details. Mostly I stared at the television, oblivious to what was playing, and drank. Bruxton came by after midnight, and the only thing I heard him say clearly was to Jesse. “Are you going to let her do this to herself?” Jesse’s answer was whispered, indistinct. For a fleeting moment I was afraid what he would tell Bruxton about me, about my family, but then I remembered that Claudia was gone and I didn’t have a family anymore.

At some point, I passed out. I woke up, drank some more, and passed out again. Later, I saw the first streaks of pale light coming in through the living-room windows. Jesse had taken off my shoes and tucked a blanket around me. Bruxton wasn’t there, but Jesse snored beside me on the couch, one arm around me and his face pressed against my hair. He woke up enough to say, “Back to sleep, Lil,” when I started to get up. Sinking back down into the pillows, I remembered that I’d lost Claudia all over again.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, I knew I really was alone now. Claudia was dead. I felt untethered, like I might do anything, now that there was nothing left I cared to do. It was morning when I got up, shed my blanket and showered. By the time I was done dressing and painting my face, Jesse was in the kitchen, frying eggs. Vodka bottles dominated the recycling bag, their contents presumably poured down the sink.

“You’re eatin’ something, Lil, I don’t want to hear…”

“Okay,” I acquiesced, and sat at the table.

“Okay? Okay,” said Jesse, sounding confused. “How you feelin’?”

“Horrible. You should have gone to bed last night. You didn’t have to stay next to me on the couch.”

“‘Course I did. Want some OJ? I’ll pop some toast in a sec.”

We ate breakfast, not talking very much. It was peaceful, just sitting with Jesse, being under his care.