Bottles clinking in the bag, I hurried up to my apartment, glanced toward Alan’s door, and was grateful there was no sign of life. Any contact with a familiar human might have derailed this headlong journey to destruction, and I didn’t want to be stopped. Inside my place, I closed and locked the door behind me before I removed each bottle from the bag and lined them up like soldiers ready for battle. My purse slid off my shoulder to the kitchen floor, and I reached in the cabinet for a glass. No fancy wineglasses to be found, only regular tumblers. Grabbing one, I twisted the top off and filled the glass nearly to the brim. I held it up to the light just as Brit had. Back in the day, I didn’t even bother with a glass. It was straight out of the bottle, emphasis on buzz, not taste.

Even as anger scorched through reason, I had enough presence of mind to pause as I raised the glass to my lips. “This is what I am. The family lush.”

Clare’s own self-destructive path had likely led to her death, and now as far as I was concerned, mine could lead me to the same dark ending.

Closing my eyes, I drank the wine. It was cheap, too sweet and fruity, but like Brit’s expensive blend, I barely tasted it as I guzzled the liquid until I saw the bottom of the glass. Drawing in a deep breath, I swiped my hand over my mouth and then refilled the tumbler. My head spun a little. My system wasn’t used to the booze, and the alcohol hit my system and empty stomach like bricks.

I refilled the glass, and I walked to the window and stared out at the river now drifting over the rocks as if it had all the time in the world. Why had I chosen this apartment with this view? Any sane person would’ve stayed away from the river that had cleaned all the evidence off Clare’s body and hidden her killer’s identity. But I’d chosen this daily reminder that rubbed salt into a wound, ensuring it never healed.

My vision blurred, forcing me to sit on the couch. I closed my eyes, pressing the glass to my temple as Clare’s voice whispered in my head.

“Guess what Brit’s been doing,” Clare said.

I was darkening the shadow around her eyes. I liked the smoky Daryl Hannah–in–Blade Runner look, and since she wanted to be me tonight for the New Year’s Eve party, I was going all out. Maybe over the top, but Clare deserved to be noticed. “What? Did mini-Mom iron our jeans again?”

Clare stared at me. “Bigger than that.”

“What?” I loved stories of Brit’s screwups, which were few and far between.

“Wait and see.”

“What’re you talking about?” Her double talk annoyed me.