Yvonne left Chicago four months after Friday. A position in London—a real one, independent of anything connected to Gary or Harmon or the wreckage of the engagement that had pulled her in. She messaged me the night before her flight. I don’t know how to thank you. I replied, You’ve helped me too. Let’s leave it at that.
Her last message arrived three weeks after she landed. No context, no explanation— just six words: There may be a fourth name. I stared at it and forwarded it to Moyá with a single line of my own. Then I poured a glass of wine and sat by my new window in my new apartment and decided, for tonight, that was someone else’s problem.