Can’t let him be tossed aside like garbage.

Kit couldn’t allow that, either. Their friend deserved better.

Oh, my God. Forrest is dead.

“We have to tell Harrison,” he said stupidly.

“He’s on his honeymoon. I’m not telling him until he returns.” Preston turned and picked Kit’s trousers up off the floor. “Here. Get dressed. You smell like whiskey.”

Numb, Kit crawled out of bed and began to put himself together. It had been four nights since he’d last seen Alice. Kit had spent most of that time drinking, waiting for the memories to fade. For the heartache to ease. He knew from his mother’s death that the pain of loss would dissipate over time. It took hours and days and weeks, then suddenly it has been months and years, and one could begin to find hints of joy now and again.

But the early stages were absolute hell.

And now his friend had died, too.

His stomach lurched, the organ suddenly undeniably angry, and Kit rushed to the washroom. Half of the whiskey he’d consumed a few hours ago came right back up.

“I hope you feel better now,” Preston said dryly from the doorway. “Because what we’re likely to see at the morgue won’t exactly be soothing.”

“Oh, Christ,” Kit gasped, gripping the sink as he tried to rinse his mouth out. “Just give me a moment.”

Ten minutes later, the two strode out of Kit’s town house and loaded into Preston’s carriage. The church bell on the corner chimed three o’clock. Kit opened the small window for fresh air, hoping to keep himself from vomiting again.

“When was the last time you ate?” Preston asked from the opposite seat.

“No idea. Yesterday?”

“You look fucking terrible.”

“I know.” He’d caught a glimpse of himself in the washroom mirror. “I’ll be fine.”

“I hope so, because I can’t watch another one of my best friends drink himself to death.”

Shit, that made him feel worse. Kit leaned his head against the side of the carriage. “How did you hear?”

“The Pinkertons roused me out of bed. They’re fairly certain it’s him, but the body was taken to the morgue before they could confirm it. I rang Bellevue and they’re expecting us.”

“Have you ever . . .” Kit couldn’t finish it, to ask if Preston had ever identified a body before.

“No, I haven’t. And, God willing, I never have to again.”

“Did the Pinkertons say what happened?”

Preston smoothed his trousers, his lips pressed tight. “He was hit by a train. The rest I can surmise.”

“Fuck,” Kit said, and closed his eyes again. “I don’t understand it. I just saw him.”

“They say he left that boardinghouse on the west side and ended up on Misery Lane.”