Jack and Brit had been together almost the entire summer and fall semester before Clare’s death. I used to hear them in Brit’s room, going at it. Dad had hated Jack, said he was trouble, but Brit just waited until he was gone before she invited Jack over. She’d gotten everything she wanted, and I was jealous.

When I’d graduated from booze to pot and pills, Jack had hooked me up. The night Clare died, when I was with Jack, I’d gotten so high, my body wasn’t my own. After I’d talked to Clare, Jack had kissed me. I’d responded mostly because I felt like I was taking something away from Brit.

We’d ended up in the navy-blue sheets covering his mattress on the floor. He kissed me on the lips, my neck, and then my breasts. I’d been overwhelmed with sensation. I’d known he was undressing me, but I was too lost to care. And then he’d pushed into me.

The invasion had caught me off guard. For all the stupid things, screwing my sister’s boyfriend had not made the list until that night. I remembered feeling a little afraid and wishing I’d gone to the party.

After he made his final push and collapsed against me, I had passed out and didn’t wake up until 5:00 a.m., when Jack was stepping out of the shower. Towel wrapped around his waist, he was smiling at me.

He kissed me. We had sex again, though this time I was sober and really not into it. After, we agreed never to tell. And I hadn’t. Soon after, Brit and Jack broke up. They’d cited distance, different life goals.

“You get your two shots of tequila before I arrived?” Jack asked.

“I did. And I didn’t take a sip.”

“You got the real stuff, not water?” He frowned and looked worried, as if a demon had been unchained.

“It was no big deal.”

“You’d have gotten water if I was behind the bar.” He frowned. “Why the tequila? I never understood that.”

“Clare loved it. I was the one who hated it. I drank everything else, but not tequila. The shots are always for her.”

“I never knew that.”

I sipped my soda. “I saw Detective Richards Saturday.”

He picked up a rag and wiped down the bar. “Your annual update.”

“More or less.” I opted not to mention the case notes I’d found at my door. “He’s retiring.”

“Makes sense,” Jack said. “He was in his fifties when he was investigating the case.”

“He looks about the same.”

“Still has no answers?” Jack asked.

“He interviewed you, right?” I asked.

“Sure. Back in the day.” He looked wary, as if mentioning the past would rip open old wounds. “He talked to everyone.”

“What did you say?”

“Not much to say. I didn’t know anything. I was with you.”