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could see lights skimming off the ocean, a ship pulling away from shore, and wondered where it was heading. She lived alone, surrounded by wood and windows. No boyfriend. No cat, no dog. No plants. Because nothing survived for long in her world. She suddenly felt the prick of her isolation and wondered if she wasn’t, like Sonia, trying to make herself disappear.
    She shook two more martinis: gin, straight up, very cold, very dry, pickled tomatoes instead of olives, and overflowed both glasses. Summer tried to calculate how much gin she would have to drink before the depression would lift. A quarter of a bottle left: not enough.
    She balanced the glasses on a plate and carried them to the living room. Rosie was scanning Summer’s bookcase. Summer thought about telling her: Soon you’ll have to carry on without me .
    The telephone buzzed and Summer steadied herself. “Hi.”
    “It’s Jon.”
    Summer was careful not to slur. “Just the man I wanted to talk to.” She paused, searching for the best way to tell him. But not in front of Rosie.
    Levi’s voice crackled over the phone line. “Turn on Channel Six.”
    Summer fumbled for the remote and zapped the set. Policemen were chasing a woman, running wildly, who then slipped through a fence. The picture was grainy.
    Summer tried to sober up enough to digest what was happening.
    “What’s this?” Rosie asked, crouching in front of the TV.
    Summer turned up the sound. A local news anchor was saying, “…police were searching the home and dojo of feminist martial artist Stephanie Killington, known by the initials SK, when she bolted. This was captured on video by a bystander with a cell phone. Police caught up to SK at the old Willoughby Warehouse, where a party was in progress.”
    Summer moved closer to the set, watching as the scene shifted to the building’s interior. A crush of twenty-somethings, their minds swelled by ecstasy and cocaine, were dancing and making out in various states of dress and undress. A rave. When SK tore through—the police hurtling after—pandemonium ensued.
    “A-fuckin’-mazin’,” Levi said, bringing Summer back to the phone. “I go out to dinner and a movie with the wife and kids, come home, turn on the tube, and this is what I see. They’ve been replaying it as an exclusive.”
    “When did this happen?” Summer asked.
    “About six hours ago.”
    “Give yourself up, girl,” Rosie called to the TV. “You’re just making it worse.”
    Levi said, “Is that Rosie?”
    “Yes.” Summer whispered, “Oh my god. Motive.”
    “The strongest motive,” Levi said. “Revenge.”
    The TV flickered. SK was cornered. A dozen cops, wary of her martial arts skills, trained their weapons on her, but didn’t move in until she was face-down. They cuffed her and led her away. Then a commercial break. Rosie used the remote to sift for more news.
    “I’ve been told she’s going to need a free attorney, so I’m putting you on your first murder case,” Levi said. “Reward for winning that video-rape case.”
    Summer felt a chill. “SK? I… I can’t do it.”
    Rosie put down the remote. “Who’s on the phone?”
    “Jon.”
    “You’ve been bugging me for a murder case for months,” Levi said. “Now you’re going to bail on me?”
    “I’ve decided… been thinking.” This wasn’t going like she’d imagined it would.
    Rosie crowded her. “SK? He wants you to defend SK?”
    “It’s funny,” Levi said. “You used to pester me for felony cases, wanting to advance your career. Then you were like, ‘No more felony cases, Jon, I got too many as is, but when you’re ready to give me a murder case, dot dot dot.’ So here I am offering you the juiciest murder case we’ve had in years, and you’re turning it down? The local press is all over this. She’s a feminist, a lot of Haze County folk detest her, and I need the best P.D. I’ve got on the case. And facts being facts, it’s important that it be a woman. Take the