The police arrived at the scene six minutes later: two detectives and a harem of badged staff. I was pretty much out of it, so I couldn’t really distinguish who was who.

“I just want to leave here. I’m not his real daughter. We had a fight last time we spoke.” Didn’t they tell you in movies not to say anything without a lawyer? I wished I had someone as savvy as Bane to sit by my side and talk me through this.

The truth disturbed me to no end. While I was shocked by Darren’s death, I wasn’t saddened by it. I felt no sympathy for the man who had ruined my future, not once but twice. Who had taken something so precious from me, and didn’t even have the guts to admit it.

The cops deemed it a classic suicide from the beginning due to his position and the angle in which he’d been shot. There was even a suicide note—because, of course, Darren always had to do things right and proper.

I’M DONE.

They took my statement of what happened and then Pam came in and started screaming. At this point, she had established herself as background noise, so I treated her as such and ignored her completely. A detective who looked like the human version of Peter Griffin from Family Guy asked me if I needed a ride anywhere, adding that it might not be the best idea to drive after what I’d seen, but I told him that I was okay, because I was, even though I wished I hadn’t been.

I wished I could feel sadness and compassion. I wished I hadn’t prayed it had happened sooner, before Darren had ruined my life.

When I got to Gail’s, I told her what had happened. She looked at me like I was a freak, her eyes wide and haunted.

“You must think that I’m the biggest jinx ever,” I said. But Gail shook her head quickly.

“No. I think you had some really shitty things happen to you, and that they’re coming to an end, sooner than you think. Good things are ahead of you, Jesse. You just need to look.”

IT APPEARS THAT A BROKEN heart smells like rotten junk food and stale vodka. I know, because I bathed in that rancid scent for a pretty long while.

Gidget, Beck, and Hale tried to visit me a few times over the next few days. I slammed the door in their faces, when I even bothered to scrape my ass off the couch. After the third full day of my acting like an emo kid who’d just heard Fall Out Boy had broken up, they resorted to leaving me food outside my door. They would give it one knock and yell something along the lines of, “Wake up, asshole, and don’t forget to wash it down with water.”

Water. Foreign concept. I’ll explain.

After Jesse dumped my ass, I decided the best course of action was drinking myself into lengthy periodic comas, so I did that for, like, four days. Every time I would wake, I would text her something or try to call. Remind her that I was still alive-ish, even though she hadn’t replied, then go back to bleaching my liver with alcohol.

Bane

I love you.

Bane

Tell me if you need anything.

Bane

Hell, I NEED SOMETHING. You.

Bane

Is this what a spiral feels like? It looks much more amusing when you’re on the outside, judging it on other people.

Working and surfing weren’t really a priority. Café Diem kept itself afloat thanks to Gail, and I was sure Hale was happy taking over the other side of my business. Beck, however, was rightly pissed. I’d dropped the ball on him, and broken all his toes in the process.

I was wondering who was going to finally pull me out of my misery. I kind of gave up on Jesse answering me. Like, ever. Gail clammed up on me and wouldn’t talk to me about her, so the frontrunners to pull me out of bed and back into my miserable life were Mom, who’d stopped by twice and left me borderline psychotic voice messages, and Edie, who’d pulled the I’m-pregnant-and-hormonal card.

But in the end, it was Sheriff Diaz.

“Protsenko, open up before I kick this flimsy thing down.” My door rattled to his knock, as if confirming the statement. If he thought I had fucks to give, he clearly hadn’t checked in my fuck-bag lately, because that shit was empty.

“Make me,” I yawned from my bed. Mom had probably whined his ear off to come have a talk with me. She knew we’d gotten close since the police station had been my second home when I was a teenager.

“If you make me get a warrant, we’re gonna have some trouble, kid.”

I loved that he called me ‘kid’ even though I was twenty-five and fucked his wife in five hundred positions on the reg.

“A warrant for what?” I snort-laughed, rolling onto my stomach and scratching my ass. “Drinking myself to death? This shit’s still legal, sir.”

He was silent for a second, calculating his words carefully. “There’s a lot of new information about Jesse Carter. Might want to rethink the death part.”

That’s all it took to make me stand up and open the door. Diaz pulled up his pants over his beer belly, his mouth dropping open in astonishment. “Wow. You look like crap.”

“Oh, shit. I was just on my way to an America’s Next Top Model audition,” I groaned, pulling my hair into a half-assed bun. “Guess I’ll have to wait for next year. Make yourself at home.”

I offered him the only thing I had available—tap water and pot—and he politely declined both. With the state of the houseboat, I was surprised he agreed to sit down at the edge of my couch without draping a towel over it. I plopped on a beanbag opposite him, crossing my legs, giving him a wolfish, fake smile.

“Spill it,” I ordered, and for the first time in days, I actually wasn’t flippant and goddamn dead on the inside.

Brian took his hat off, always a good sign if you’re looking for a dramatic announcement, and tipped his chin down. He was a short, balding man with freckles covering the better half of his face, lips included. Whatever was left of his fuzzy hair was the color of Cheetos. He looked tragic. “Where should I begin?”

“From the middle. I love stories that begin right in the middle,” I deadpanned.

He rolled his eyes. “Goddamn millennials. Let’s start with the freshest news I’m sure you’ve heard—Darren Morgansen is dead.”

As evident from the way my jaw hit the fucking floor, it was not, in fact, something I was aware of. Sheriff Diaz’s eyes bulged a little before he cleared his throat and rearranged himself on the edge of my sofa, nearly grimacing at the open Styrofoam takeout containers. I was normally on top of things. If I had interest in someone, I’d know where they were at any given moment and what time they took their daily shit. But I’d been too busy feeling sorry for myself for the past week to follow Darren.

“Yup. Suicide by gunshot. His stepdaughter found him.”

“Jesse?” I perked just from hearing her mentioned. It was a whole other realm of pathetic, but at least I owned up to it.

Brian shrugged. “He only had one stepdaughter.”

I sagged back into my beanbag and stroked my chin. Darren being dead was a blessing for my bank account. I owed the bastard a lot of money but literally no one knew, other than him, me, and Jesse, and the latter would never tell. But I was more concerned about how she’d taken it. She wasn’t a fan of his—especially not near the end—but I guessed she was distraught as any other person would be.

“Do you know how she’s handling it?”

Brian checked his phone, frowned, and tucked it back into his pocket.

“Her mother is in pieces.”

“Her mother can go fuck herself in the ass with every dildo on planet Earth, and I still won’t spare her an ounce of lube. I asked specifically about the daughter.”

Brian blinked a few times, scratched his bald head. “Now, now, Roman. You can’t love a woman and not respect her parents. That’s not how relationships work.”

I stared at him, expressionless. “Rules don’t apply to Jesse’s folks. So, what else is new with her?”

“The boys.” He straightened his spine, flashing me a warning look that asked me not to act like a maniac. “They’re coming back to town. I thought you’d want to know. Mr. Wallace had mentioned at the town hall meeting this week that they will all be flying back into Todos Santos to celebrate their former schoolmate’s birthday next week. Wren Clayton?”

Didn’t know. Didn’t care. They were coming back. The plan was to deal with them myself. It had always been the plan. I didn’t know how Jesse would feel about me doing it, but I wasn’t planning on telling her until after the execution, anyway. I knew they were bound to return at some point, and had bided my time mouse-quiet. Once they were here, they’d wish they weren’t.

Brian was a mind reader, apparently, because he rolled his shoulders forward, tapping my knee and fishing for eye contact.

“I need to know what your plans are for them.”

“Thanks for your time.” I stood up. “And for the visit. And for not judging me for this.” I motioned to the coffee table where all the half-eaten junk food was scattered, still in its plastic containers.

“Oh, I am judging you for this. And I still want to know what to expect. This is not the Wild West.”

“Ever opened a map?” I sauntered over to the kitchen nook, lighting up a joint, then moving over to him. “And I pay you to give me information and to turn a blind eye, not to hear about my plans.”

“I don’t need a pile of dead, rich white kids in my jurisdiction,” he said through gritted teeth. “There aren’t enough trees in the world for that kind of paperwork.”

I flicked his ear playfully. It annoyed and turned him on at the same time, my favorite reaction from people. “Zero body count. Trust me.” And I meant it. But no one said anything about castration.

He stood at the threshold for a few moments, scanning my place, then dragged his gaze to my face. “She must be real special.”

I smirked. Such a fucking cliché. “Are we having a moment?” I arched an eyebrow.

He shook his head, laughed, and shut the door in my face.

I heard him mutter, “Bastard.”