Shaking off the melancholy, I returned to my car and sat behind the wheel, surrounded by the new-car smell that soon would mingle with everyday life—fast food, perfume, sweat after a long day’s shoot. A therapist had once told me that the feelings surrounding Clare’s death were a little like the smell of a new car: The acuteness would slowly fade and be replaced by a scent that would weave into my life. It would always be there, but it would fade into the background.

I inhaled, wanting to remember this aroma, knowing it would fade in time; however, Clare’s loss had sharpened over the years and could still cut through flesh into bone.

“Shit.” Driving away from the river, I wound through the neighborhoods up the hill. When I reached a familiar side street, Crowder Lane, I took a left. That last night, Clare had fought with Kurt, stepped outside into the darkness, and vanished.

I didn’t drive by my family’s old home but went the additional five blocks to the old Mediterranean-style stucco house that had belonged to Jo-Jo’s parents. It hadn’t changed much in thirteen years. The yard was neatly manicured, and there was a Mercedes parked in the driveway and a collection of boxed delivery packages on the covered front porch. Back when Jo-Jo’s family lived there, there’d been several bikes leaning against the side of the house, a trampoline out back, and a basketball hoop at the end of the driveway.

Jo-Jo’s parents traveled a great deal for work. Both were often gone during the week and not home until late Friday night. New Year’s Eve 2008 they’d been skiing. The size of the house, absence of the parents, New Year’s, booze, unsupervised kids—it had been the perfect storm.

When I’d pushed through the front door of my father’s home on New Year’s Day, a pale Brit was waiting for me.

“Finally,” Brit said. “Where is Clare?”

I’d yawned, reached for an aspirin bottle in the cabinet next to the kitchen stove. I tossed two in my mouth, turned on the faucet, and gulped water.

“Get a glass,” Brit said.

“Go away.”

“Seriously, where’s Clare?” Brit’s eyes were bloodshot and her hair tousled.

I didn’t know the answer but really wasn’t worried. “This isn’t the first time she slept somewhere else. Call Jo-Jo.” I grabbed a soda from the fridge. “What happened to you? You look rough.”

“I was sick last night,” Brit said.

“Whatever.” I’d left Brit in the kitchen, stewing like she did so well, and gone to bed. Dad, still dressed in his tux, had woken me up five hours later, roughly shaking me and shouting, “Your sister isn’t home!”