“What?” He rakes his fingers through his hair. “I don’t believe that. Do you? And … wait—” He holds up his hand when I try to speak. “Oliver and I have been trying to figure out who did this to you—pulling in extra hours on top of the Kemp case, sacrificing…” A slight angry wave in Cindy’s direction and then a sigh. “The least you could do is take care of yourself.”

“Marlitt?” Oliver’s voice, low and hoarse from somewhere far away. “It’s two in the morning.”

“Yeah.” I cup the phone with my hands, eyes still on Teddy. “I’ve got something you need to see.”

“Where—” I can hear him fumbling around for something. “Where are you?”

“I’m at the Kap-O house. It’s a Hawaiian nights party, and I’m calling with an anonymous tip.”

There’s a pause, and I hear him swallow before he clears his throat.

“Teddy’s here, too, but he has to leave.” I stare daggers at him in the dark.

“Teddy’s there?” Oliver repeats, sounding a little more awake.

“Yeah, but he’s gots to go.” The roundness of letters escapes me and I’m losing the shape of my sentences. My mind flickers to the warning label on my pain meds about not mixing with alcohol.

Teddy waits with me wordlessly until Oliver arrives, holding back Cindy’s hair while she vomits onto the concrete. I almost prefer the sound of her getting sick to the silence that stretches beneath the thuds and yells of the ongoing party. I feel something irreparable shattering, threatening to break entirely between us, but have no idea what it is or how to hold it together.

Twenty minutes later, I see Oliver’s VW Golf pull down a side street. He turns off his headlights immediately, and Teddy flashes his phone so he can find us in the dark.

“Hey,” Oliver says, frowning at my blond wig and too-short dress. He’s wearing street clothes, but not a pirate shirt or board shorts. He looks like a detective, which means he believes me. Means he’s not dressed to blend in, take a look around, and leave. He’s prepared to flash his badge and bring a team in.

“What’ve we got?” He’s looking at Teddy.

“This is all Marlitt,” Teddy says, and waves his free hand in my direction. His voice sounds tired. “I have to take Cindy home.” And as if on cue, Cindy vomits, nearly missing Oliver’s shoes.

Under the fluorescent kitchen lights, Oliver’s green, with his shirt clutched to his mouth when he opens the basement door.

I’ve been standing guard, in a manner of speaking, replacing the vomiting bikini girl, making ungodly heaving sounds, and yelling “I might be contagious!” whenever someone wanders into the kitchen.