The Whitehouses left their only child, sixteen-year-old Michelle, an enormous fortune. What Claudia’s mother sometimes described as “fuck-you money.” And Michelle was ready to say a lot of fuck-you’s. A young photographer who had seen a photo of her at the funeral reached out through the family attorney—She’d be perfect for a fall spread I’m doing for Vogue—and whisked her away from the sad, empty house and her suddenly tentative friends. A few months later she quit school and for the next five years, as she tells it now, Claudia’s mom went hard. She never divulged details—“way too much drugs and partying” or, if she was in a certain mood, “I was the definition of a hot mess”—but sitting in the cab with the lingering sting in her eye, it occurred to Claudia that underneath those throwaway phrases were probably some horror stories. Had her mom ever woken up like she had on Saturday? How many times?

The taxi TV started its loop, too loud, with a ten-second advertisement for a Broadway show that featured people in bird costumes, their wings and feathers flapping across a stage. It was A MUST SEE! A TRIUMPH! The commercial ended and a male news anchor with a hairline as defined as a freshly poured sidewalk began to speak:

“The Subway Slasher has struck again. Police say another victim was attacked early Sunday on an F train near the Thirty-Fourth Street station. The twenty-nine-year-old male is in stable condition at Bellevue Hospital.”

The picture cut to police tape and flashing lights.

“I can’t believe they haven’t caught him yet,” said Trevor.

“Will you turn that off, please?”

“Sorry,” said Trevor, pressing the screen. “It’s hard to get any quiet in this city.”

“That’s true,” said Claudia. She looked at him. “Where are you from again?”

“Ohio.”

“Have you ever been out on the water?”

“No.”

“It’s quieter out there.”

Claudia watched Trevor watch the city as they bumped and stalled their way down Bowery to the edge of the island. He was taking it all in, eyes alive; scanning and inputting sidewalks and skyscrapers and smoke shops and stoplights. He sat at attention while she slumped back.

“Are we going to the ocean?” he asked.

“Not quite. The harbor is where the East River and the Hudson meet. You have to go out pretty far to get to the actual Atlantic.”

“Oh.” He sounded disappointed. “I’ve never seen the ocean.”

“Really?”

“I keep meaning to take the subway to Coney Island. That’s the Atlantic Ocean, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you ever been there?”

“To Coney Island? A couple times. The beach is a little gross.”