“I did.”

“Chris had his truth too. He had a life. A real life. And you’ve taken it from him. You’ve taken it from me.”

“I can’t help that.”

“But you can.”

“No.”

“You’ve got to tell the police.”

“I can’t.”

“You’ve got to.” Hook tried to keep his voice level, but it was his rage that spoke now, again and again. “You’ve got to! You hear me? You’ve got to!”

And suddenly the glass dropped from her hand and thumped on the carpet, spilling, and she was out of her chair and into the bathroom and he could hear it coming out of her, like the mess stuck in his own body, a sour filth of pain and anguish. He did not go in until she was finished, and then he found her crumpled on the floor next to the toilet bowl shaking her head and shuddering. There was vomit on her suit, on the bowl rim, on the floor.

“Oh God, I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

She started to get up and almost fell before he caught her, and he realized she was much drunker than he had thought. He helped her out of her pantsuit and then a mini-slip that was soiled too, and which was all she was wearing besides her underpants. He wet a towel and cleaned off her face and hoped she would take the towel from him to clean the front of her, but she just hung there in the grip of his arm, with her head resting on his shoulder, and he found himself washing her between breasts that were as beautiful as the rest of her. He walked her into the bedroom and helped her into his bed, pulling the sheet and covers up over her. Then he went back into the bathroom and cleaned up there.

When he was finished he came out and she watched him with grave unreadable eyes until finally he turned off the bathroom light and set himself up with a pillow in the armchair across from the bed. He lit a cigarette and smoked it down and listened for a change in her breathing to signal that she was sleeping. But it did not come. Instead there was her voice.

“David—”

“Yes?”

“Thank you. I’m very sorry.”

“Forget it. It happens.”

“Not to me. Never like this.”

“You feeling better?”

“Yes. Do you mind that I called you David?”

“No.”

“Could I tell you something, a kind of story?”

In the light from the street he could see her body under the covers, her hair spread like the wings of a black swan on the white pillow, and he could feel his heart begin to strike hard at him. “Of course,” he said.

“It’s a stupid little story. I wouldn’t bother you with it if I weren’t stoned.”

“Go ahead.”