“I was in a car accident here in January. I came to see the spot.”

“That was you?”

“It was.”

“My roommate saw it happen. She said the crash made a horrific noise.”

“I was going too fast.” I wanted to add that I wasn’t drunk, that I didn’t use drugs, but spilling random explanations to a stranger didn’t make much sense.

“Are you really okay?” she asked.

“Just trying to remember the accident. It’s all a blank. Did your roommate tell you anything about it?”

“She said she saw you hit. As she ran out of our apartment toward your car, another man came up to help. He stayed with you while she called 9-1-1.”

“A man?” Carving through the inky blackness, I sensed the faint memory of a man’s hands gently touching my forehead. The report hadn’t mentioned a man. “Who?”

“I don’t know. He was gone when she got back.”

Had he been the one who’d comforted me? Had he taken my phone? I couldn’t back the feeling with facts or memories, but I knew this guy wasn’t random. “Anyone catch his name? I’d like to thank him.”

“No.”

I looked up at the apartment building and noted the numbers. “You and your roommate live here?”

“I’m Roberta Paulson, and my roommate is Jenny Taylor. I can give her your number. She’ll call you when she has a moment.”

“Thanks. If I could call her, that would be great.” Roberta gave me her number, and I texted her a note explaining the situation.

“Look, I’ve got to get a shower and take a quick nap. Working a double,” Roberta said.

“Thanks for stopping. This has been helpful.”

“I didn’t tell you much.”

“Any and all pieces are welcome.” The early-morning chill had seeped into my bones.

Everyone lies.

I’d lied about using drugs and sleeping with Jack.

Jack had lied about spending the night with me.

Brit had omitted she’d fought with Clare that last night.

Kurt, who’d been scrutinized the most, might have been the most honest of us all.

And Jo-Jo was lying, too. Maybe she’d not fabricated a story, but she wasn’t telling everything she knew. Her lies were ones of omission.

33 MARISA

33

MARISA

Friday, March 18, 2022

6:30 a.m.

As I climbed the stairs to my apartment, Alan’s door opened. His voice mingled with a woman’s. I couldn’t make out whatever they were saying, but I picked up an awkward strain that ran under the words.

I reached the top landing as Alan kissed the woman, who wore a cocktail dress and heels that looked painful. They both turned toward me.

“Morning,” I said.

“Morning,” the woman said.