I’d protested as he’d insisted I flush the rest down the toilet, and promise—cross my heart and hope to die—I’d never bring drugs into the house again. Although I’d crossed my fingers behind my back, too, I’d mostly kept my word. Even after Ash left Newdale and I was losing my mind, I only partook on the odd occasion when a joint happened to be going around after a shift at the Cliff’s Head. I tried Molly once and vowed I’d never do it again because I hated not being in control. It was why I never got drunk anymore. Most people developed a loose tongue when they had too much booze. God only knew I’d seen it often enough at work. But the clonazepam I’d got from Dealer Dave after Dr. Adler stopped prescribing me benzos helped me relax whenever I couldn’t deal with not knowing where Ash was. I’d done a good job slowly weaning myself off them, hadn’t called Dave in over six months, but with Ash home and my anxiety levels rising, I needed a refill, and Dave had been more than happy to oblige.

“Earth to Maya.” Dave’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts. “You high or what? I said I’ll be at the usual spot in ten. If you can’t make it, it’ll be next week.”

“I’ll be there.”

I hung up and walked to the kitchen, where Ash sat at the table with some paper and a pencil. As I got closer, I saw he’d sketched out the rough shape of the garage, and when he looked up, he smiled. “I’m working on your fancy-shmancy bathroom. Figuring out where the claw-foot tub and walk-in steam shower will go.”

I laughed. “My check might bounce, but by all means, you carry on. I have to run an errand. Won’t be long. Can you be ready to leave for Drift in about forty-five?”

“Uh-huh,” Ash replied, barely glancing up as he continued drawing.

See, I thought, I know what’s best for us. Of course I did. I always had.

When I got to the old Newdale cemetery, I parked the car. As usual, the place looked deserted and no other vehicles were in the lot. Nobody would ask, but if they did, it also had great walking trails for the less morbid, and I’d changed into my sneakers before leaving the house in case I needed a plausible excuse for being there. As I walked down the path to the spot where my exchanges with Dave always took place, the grave of a family called Snow—which he thought was “poetic destiny”—I noticed the woman coming toward me in the distance. Too late to turn back, she’d already seen me and was waving now, her red curls bouncing as she picked up the pace.