“You wanted to know if I’d seen her at the party before she vanished. I remember her dancing in my parents’ den with a bunch of people. Her arms were waving in the air, but she wasn’t smiling. I thought she was you for a second.”

“You said she fought with Kurt?”

“He came up to her, said something, and she blew him off. He reached for her, but she held up her hand as if to tell him to stop. I was too far away to hear what they said.”

“Kurt said they didn’t fight.”

“I’m sure he did.”

“What happened next?”

“I got distracted with Sam. He was being his charming self.”

I knew about succumbing to charm. “And?”

“And then before I realized, it was midnight, a neighbor called the cops, and then there was hell to pay. I spent the rest of the night cleaning up.”

“We’re still living and breathing,” I said, more to myself.

Jo-Jo’s parents had been legally liable for the party full of underage drinkers. Both had lost their jobs, and my father had filed a lawsuit seeking $1 million in punitive damages. They’d settled out of court.

Jo-Jo had hated leaving Richmond before her high school junior year. She’d lashed out at me, blaming my family for causing so much trouble for her parents. Yes, I should have been there. Would I have, if not for that pill Jack gave me? It was my fault that Clare had wandered off with a stranger. If I’d been there, she wouldn’t have left with him. Ten years would pass before Jo-Jo and I had a civil conversation. By then, I’d forgiven Jo-Jo, her parents, and everyone except the killer and me.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to churn this up.”

Jo-Jo sighed. “It was a shitty time. No one came out a winner.”

Especially Clare.

I shifted my focus back to this year. “You were at my art show, right?”

“Yes.”

“Was it crowded?”

“There were about a dozen people there,” Jo-Jo said. “It was a respectable showing.”

I sipped the soda. “I sold one picture.” I didn’t remember the sale, but I’d seen my note written in the margins of my datebook: “FIRST SALE. $400.” “Did I sell it the night of my show?”

“I don’t think so.”

“According to my calendar, it was a cash sale.” There’d been four one-hundred-dollar bills in my purse after the accident.

“That almost never happens anymore.”

“I know.”

“Did you write down a name?”

I walked to my desk by the window and flipped back to January. The worn bills were still clipped inside the book’s back cover. Gently, I ran my fingers over them. “No name. Just the sale. You’d think I’d want to remember the name.”

“The sale mattered more. Validation, right?”

“I guess you’re right. Officially an artist.”