“Everything. It was like the twins were asleep and then they woke up.”

“Because Brit left.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Why?”

“Who knows?”

“You must have a theory. You and Clare were good friends, right?”

Jo-Jo’s answer is not in the notes, but I pictured her nodding. “The twins were sick a lot after their mother died. We all figured it was stress.”

“Sick how?”

“Stomachaches, mostly. Tired. They were pretty low key for a couple of years because they just didn’t feel well. Mom said given their mother’s suicide and their father’s affairs, it’s no wonder they were a neurotic mess.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. Nothing Jo-Jo had said was a lie, but it hurt to know she’d spilled secrets so easily. Jo-Jo had sworn she’d never tell anyone.

I’d been so angry in those days. My mother had been dead three years and yet the pain cut fresh wounds every day. Brit had left for college, and I started physically feeling better. Which allowed me time to play with my cameras and think about Mom. The loss. I’d shoot pictures until I was exhausted, but when that didn’t work, I turned to my father’s liquor cabinet.

The first time I drank the vodka, it tasted bitter. But immediately, a warm glow settled over my body, and for the first time since my mother had died, I felt relaxed. The next day, I’d had a raging headache, and I’d thrown up. I’d felt as awful as I had in the first two years after Mom died, and I’d sworn I’d never drink again. But within a couple of days, the flu-like symptoms had vanished, and the sadness and anger roared to life. And so, I drank again.

Within a few months, it took more booze to get the relaxed feeling, but I also didn’t get as sick. Even if I did, I didn’t mind. Better to barf than to hurt.

“I might have been a bitch, but I didn’t hurt my sister,” I muttered to myself as I rose and went into the kitchen.

I grabbed a can of seltzer from the fridge and popped the top. Clare had left the party alone, but no one had seen where she’d gone.

Suddenly hideously restless, I set the can down, slipped on a jacket, and grabbed my purse. Jo-Jo was sleeping now, but Jack usually worked at J.J.’s Pub this time of night. Maybe talking to him would shake something loose.

Outside, I welcomed the cold rush as I burrowed my hands into my jacket and braced against the wind as I walked the two blocks to the bar. I pushed inside, greeted by warm air smelling of beer and fried food.

Jack was behind the bar and, when he looked up, smiled as I approached. “What brings you out on a night like this?”