She couldn’t care less about the comfort. It was principle that concerned her. It felt like the world had collapsed far enough, she shouldn’t have to relinquish more territory—relinquish more of what felt normal. Probably he wouldn’t get it, but she needed the control. She wouldn’t capitulate to those who wished her dead.

They talked some more. He said he’d read somewhere that she lived in Chicago, and she gave him a précis of growing up: Lake Forest, Illinois, as a privileged only child. She didn’t get a sense of the insularity until she was sixteen or seventeen, and it made her want to be a journalist, force her experience outside the leafy green. She studied at NYU, and then came back to Chicago to work for the Tribune. Six months after she took the job, her mother died, and Lamar announced he was moving to California. She was tempted to follow him, but she didn’t want to walk out on the Tribune job, and ultimately she stayed in Chicago. Met Tony in 2006 and married the next year, and were it not for the fact he’d cheated on her for eighteen months, she thought she’d be happy with him for the rest of her life.

Maybe that was too much too fast, but Vincent just handled it with a nod, and then mentioned he’d seen the photograph in her room—presumably her son?

It brought that perfect image to her mind, and then the memory of the day—trying to make a giggling seven-year-old sit still for five minutes. She would have gone back there for a while, but Vincent was looking at her.

She said, ‘Yes, that’s Alex. He’s ten next month.’

Vincent grinned and said, ‘Double figures,’ but that was it for his family questions. He gave it a few seconds and then said, ‘Yeah, I’ve got a dad up in Brooklyn, but that’s it in the family department.’

Her phone kept buzzing on the seat beside her. Email upon email. She skim-read messages as they came in.

I’m so sorry …

I can’t imagine what …

Our thoughts and prayers are …

Such an awful thing to happen to such …

If you’re staying in LA we’re happy to …

Delete, delete.

They all meant well, obviously, but in some sense the sympathy was just an added burden. Everything confirmed the catastrophe. The texts, the emails, the missed calls accruing. The victim-support staff at Santa Barbara PD. It was like a kind of social friction, delaying her return to normal life. She didn’t want to slow down and engage with it all. So far she was coping, but she couldn’t risk grief being inflated, matching the scale of the sympathy. She wouldn’t be able to get out of bed in the morning.