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happened.
    Unless he planned it in advance. That would be even worse.
    The prescription must have been purchased for some other purpose. But what? Brendan never took medicine, never had a single complaint beyond the muscle aches that he called the tenor of a cop’s existence. The holster was weighty when worn continually, and hours at the shooting range always tended to stiffen up his arms.
    Sonodrine was a sleep aid primarily. That’s what the first Web page had told me. But it could be used to dull pain as well. Had Brendan suffered some injury too mild to tell me about?
    My sister stepped close, trying to hold me in her thin, reedy grasp. I pulled free.
    Teggie frowned. “Let me fix breakfast,” she said. “First.”
    How tempted I was, how much I wanted to give in, go back to how things once had been.
    Although this wasn’t really how things had been, was it, me setting off on a search for answers, Teggie suggesting we stick to the mundanities of routine?
    I grabbed my bag, kept stocked for small, impromptu jobs or on-site meetings, turning around for one last look before leaving.
    â€œNot hungry,” I said. “You eat.”
    â€œI never eat before an audition,” she replied. Her narrow shoulders seemed to settle. “Forget it then. Just come back quickly.”
    My response sounded bleak as I took the stairs at a reckless pace. “I don’t know if this will be quick.”

Chapter Eight
    When I got out to the driveway, my car, unused now for the better part of a week, was frozen solid, its cherry color bled pink by layers and layers of ice. Every surface—windshield, windows, both side mirrors, and all four metal flanks—had turned into opaque, mottled sheets. The tires were stiff and glassy. My key wouldn’t slide into the lock.
    Once it became clear just how impenetrable the car was, I began to stamp around, boots slipping and catching on ice-coated lumps of gravel.
    How did I not anticipate this? It was January in Wedeskyull, New York. I’d lived in the upper Adirondack Mountains for nearly six years now; I knew what it was like to have to keep a snow shovel inside so you could start carving out your path from the front door. If you didn’t dig things out every day—porch, driveway, car—you’d find them entombed the next.
    Entombed. My mind revolted against the word, and I paused in my frantic sliding and tripping, breath emerging in furious white huffs.
    I couldn’t keep avoiding all the words that clanged like a church bell, all the things that threatened to suffocate me. So long as I was doing that, I’d never discover why Brendan had done what he did.
    Hanged himself.
    Don’t just think it, say it aloud.
    No more lying, blinking, turning away.
    â€œHung himself,” I whispered into the frozen air. “My husband hung himself.”
    I glanced up at the bedroom window—my window now, just mine—looking to see if Teggie would be occupying the room, her figure etched against the glass.
    â€œHe’s dead!” I cried out. “Brendan killed himself!”
    I hurled my oversized bag onto a solid hump of snow. It could’ve broken my camera, but I didn’t care. Then I stomped over to the garage and ripped the door open, fighting a low drift that broke into solid pieces at my assault. Once I had succeeded, I plunged my fist into a bucket and yanked out a scraper.
    I flung myself against the brittle car, tearing at its armor so that first hard chunks, then a fine spray, flew off the glass.
    Words as splintery as the ice emerged from me.
    â€œYou used to do this for me, Brendan, but you’ll never do it again!”
    Only the grinding scrape of serrated plastic against lifeless things—metal, glass, and ice—answered back.
    â€œI’ll never wait for you to come inside, breath clouding your face. You’ll never say, ‘All done, Chestnut.’ Never! Never! Never!”
    I