I slowly propped myself up on my elbows and looked around. Everything was in perfect order. A stack of books with a skull weighting them down. An ivory cashmere blanket, folded into thirds, hanging off the side of his saddle leather chair. Above the fireplace, two white eels swam lazily in an aquarium around black coral. “Sam?”

  Swinging my feet to the floor, I grimaced at the pain that shot through my right temple. Where the hell was my purse? I leaned forward and looked along the leather shag rug, then under the coffee table. I was also missing my pants. I thrummed my fingers against my bare thighs. Tilting to one side, I looked down the long hall that led to Sam’s bedroom. The door was ajar, the light off. I needed to find out what time it was and where my purse and phone were. What had happened last night? We had been drinking at Perch . . . and then . . .

  I stood and lurched unnaturally to the right, one foot stumbling over the other as I tried to stay upright. I sank onto the couch. Maybe I should lie back down, just for a few more minutes. Did I have any appointments today? What was today? Had I made it to Jacob’s school meeting?

  I closed my eyes and listened for Sam’s car or footsteps. He would take care of everything.

  “Damn, you’re trashed.” Sam shook my shoulder a little more aggressively than was needed. I moaned and tried to push him away. “Seriously, Lill. It’s almost ten.”

  I opened my eyes and almost mewed at the sight of the Starbucks cup in his hand. “Please say that’s pumpkin.”

  “It’s pumpkin.”

  I sat up and reached for the cup with both hands, humming in appreciation as I took a tentative sip to test the temperature, then a long glug. “You’re a saint.”

  “And you’re a mess.” He gently separated a strand of hair that was stuck to my cheek from drool. “What do you have today? Anything this morning?”

  “What is it, Friday?”

  His lips pinched together. “Yes, Lillian.”

  “You don’t have to say it like that. My head is a complete fog. How much did I drink last night?”

  “With me?” He sank back into the couch and propped an expensive monogrammed slipper on the coffee table. “Maybe three, four beers. I have no idea what you took in after you left.”

  I twisted to face him. “After I left?”

  He adopted the slow and annoying cadence of someone speaking to a dunce. “After you left the restaurant, I put you in a taxi and you went home.”

  “What?” I had no recollection of that. No recollection of anything past Sam telling me a story about a valet at a gay bar . . . I strained to think, to capture another memory. I had seen someone there at the restaurant. Someone I knew. Who had it been? “So how did I get here?”

  “You called me about an hour later and needed me to pick you up from Ladera Heights. I told you to take a taxi, but you said that you didn’t have enough cash. And you refused to take an Uber because you said Mike would see the charge.”

  “Why would I care if Mike saw the charge?” This made no sense. “Where’d you pick me up from?”

  “Near Fox Hills. Shitty area. I hit a pothole that fucked up my alignment.”

  “Why would I be in . . .” I paused as a horrible gear clicked into place. “Was I by the mall?”

  He picked up his own coffee cup. “A little more to the west. You were at a gas station, sitting on the curb.” He said it like I’d been bare-assed on a skid row bucket. “Probably ruined your pants. I put them in the wash for you.”

  “Thanks.” I squeezed his knee, unsurprised by the gesture. Sam was the ultimate caretaker. He’d probably given me two Tylenol and a glass of ice water before telling me a bedtime story. One day, he’d make a great father, but until then, he was all mine.

  My mind detoured around The Ways Sam Was Great, because there was only one likely reason for me to be in Ladera Heights, near the mall, at that exact station that Sam was mentioning—I know that gas station—and it was because Fran lived two blocks inward, in a Pepto-Bismol-pink house with twin plastic flamingos in the yard. I knew because I’d fed her cats for two weeks, a few years ago, when she was in Costa Rica. I knew because once, after feeding those scrawny Siameses, I’d bought cigarettes at that gas station. There, hit with an immense craving for nicotine, I’d convinced myself that one or two cigarettes wouldn’t hurt anybody.

  So why had I been there last night? Maybe Fran had called me and wanted to smooth over her employee review with a glass of merlot and those smelly French cheeses that she always gifted the Times editorial staff for Christmas. “Where’s my phone?”

  “I left it next to you.” He reached behind me and patted the cushion, then ran his hand down the back crack. It wasn’t there. “Here, I’ll call it.”

  I found it just before it rang, the thin case wedged between the arm and the cushion. “Got it.” I unlocked the screen and went to my call log. No missed calls from Mike. What kind of husband wouldn’t notice—or care—if his wife didn’t come home? Or maybe I had come home. After all, I’d had to get to Fran’s somehow. Had Mike given me a ride? I tried desperately to remember something, but came up blank.

  Yep, there was my call to Sam, at 11:42 p.m. Before that, nothing. No call from Fran. I checked my texts and discovered the same. “What’d I say when you picked me up?”

  He ran a hand across the thigh of his linen pant leg and flicked at a piece of something. He stayed silent, and my concern grew. “Sam?”

  “You don’t remember anything about last night?” he finally asked.

  “No,” I snapped.

  “You were drunk,” he said reluctantly. “And upset. At least, you were upset when we parted. But at the gas station, you seemed . . . satisfied.”

  Satisfied? What was that supposed to mean? At my blank look, he sighed. “I should check on your pants. They should be dry by now.”

  “Like, sexually satisfied?” I ventured.

  He broke out in unexpected laughter, a bout that stretched so long that I glared at him. “It’s not that funny,” I sniped.

  “Oh my gosh.” He caught his breath, his laugh wheezing to a halt. “You took what I was saying in the completely wrong context. It’s my fault for trying to beat around the bush. Ignore satisfied. You seemed vindicated. That’s a more accurate word.”

  Vindicated. Dread closed like a vise around my stomach. I didn’t like that answer at all. The idea that I was lurking around Fran’s neighborhood at midnight was already an unsettling thought. The thought of me emerging victorious and villainous did not bode well for whatever I’d been up to. “Did I say anything?”

  “Well, before you vomited into my messenger bag, I asked what you’d been doing and you smiled.” He shifted uncomfortably, and I stifled the urge to remind him that I was the good girl in our pairing, the one who always told him to slow down when he was driving, and that a homophobic asshole at the bar wasn’t worth arguing with. This drunk, vomiting weirdo he was describing—that wasn’t me. That didn’t sound like anything I would actually do, yet here I was, in my underwear, looking at the record of a phone call that supported that exact action.

  “I just smiled?”

  “It was this creepy evil grin.” He grimaced. “And then you said that you were ‘righting wrongs.’” He lifted his hands in surrender. “Whatever that means.”

  “It doesn’t sound good,” I said dully.

  “Well, no offense, Lill, but you’re not exactly a masked vigilante. Worst-case scenario, you probably left a strongly worded Post-it Note on someone’s windshield who parked too close to a fire hydrant.”

  I almost smiled at that, the scenario accurate.

  He stood. “Look, I’ve got a listing appointment in an hour. Let me grab your pants from the dryer, and I’ll give you a ride to your car.”

  I nodded as he headed to the laundry room. Returning to my phone, I opened my email. Any optimism I’d gained disappeared at the latest email in my in-box. It was from Fran, and the subject line was all I needed to see.

  Lillian Smith: Termination.

  CHAPTER 19

  LILLIAN

  Fran’s email was short and also sent to an address I didn’t recognize—probably HR—with four CCs, including me.

  Lillian Smith is no longer employed with Los Angeles Times Communications LLC, effective immediately. Please disable her database access, key fob, parking card, and company email account.

  I was still staring at the screen when Sam returned, my blue capris in hand. In my peripheral vision, I could see them hovering, and reached out and blindly felt around until I found them.

  “What’s wrong? You’re super pale.” I felt his hand on my forehead. “Temperature feels normal.”

  “I was just fired.”

  “What?” He sat next to me and I listed to the left until I hit his shoulder. He put his arm around me and pulled me against his side.

  Twenty-two years. Two decades. I’d been with the newspaper longer than I’d been with Mike. It felt like everything in my life was splintering apart. I let out a groan.

  “Hey, it’s okay.” Sam smoothed a hand over my hair, then wiped a tear from my cheek.

  No, it wasn’t. I was a happily married wife; then I wasn’t. I was a respectfully employed writer; now I wasn’t. What did my life look like without my job? What did I look like?

  “You can get another job.” Sam pressed a kiss on the side of my head. “Lillian. Hey. Stop crying.”

  Oh God. I was crying. I clamped my lips to stop the small mewing sounds that were bubbling out. I hadn’t been this emotional over Mike’s cheating, and what did that say about my mental state? Sam went to stand and I clung to his shirt, my cheek pressed against his scratchy linen top.

  “Just let me call Mike. He’ll come and pick you up.”

  “No.” I surfaced from the grief long enough to find my voice. “Don’t tell Mike.”

  “Why not?”

  “Just, promise me you won’t.” The thought of Mike knowing about this failure . . . Talk about a deep knife in the wound of my already damaged ego. First, I couldn’t keep a husband; now I couldn’t keep a job. “I’ll tell him later, when I’m ready. I need to talk to Fran first. See what’s going on. Maybe she’ll hire me back.” Even part-time, even as a freelancer. Hell, I’d grovel and beg and do sales calls if I had to.

  Well . . . maybe not sales calls.

  “You have to be honest with him, Lill. This is a big deal.”

  No, Sam was wrong about that. Mike hadn’t been honest with me for months, maybe a year. He’d always wanted separate finances, so we had them. He’d wanted separate lives, so we lived them. I had enough in my savings account to cover my half of the bills for a year, which was plenty of time for me to find another job. So why did Mike need to know what had happened? “Sam, I swear on my child’s life, if you tell him, I will strangle you with that stupid necklace you’re wearing.” I glared at him.

  He laughed. “It’s a bolo tie.”

  “It’s ugly.”

  He ignored the insult. “Mike’s not stupid. And look, I hate to say it, but we’ve got to leave if I’m going to make my appointment.”

  Right. Because he had a job. Still had a job. Unlike me, who should have spent the day writing the Clark and Dentlinson obituaries, which were due by two. Who would write them? Janice? Screw her. I let out a sob and Sam’s shoulders sank.

  “Come on, Lillian. You have to pull yourself together.”

  “I’m fine,” I protested hotly, even as my voice cracked and broke on the words. “Just give me my purse and we’ll go.”

  He rose. “I’m sorry. I would cancel my meeting, but it’s with the pier project.”

  The pier project? A good friend would have some idea of what he was talking about, but I was blank. I worked one foot, then the other, into my pants.

  Okay, I could do this. I just needed to get to my car and get to Fran and find out what was going on.

  That brilliant plan stalled out in less than fifteen minutes, in the parking lot of Perch. I sat in the passenger seat of Sam’s car and went through my purse contents for a second time. Shit. My keys—a giant round ring packed with tools and mementos—weren’t there.

  “This is crazy,” I mumbled, my anxiety rising. “My keys are missing.”

  Sam looked toward the bar, which was closed until dinner. “Think you left them in there last night?”

  “I doubt it.” I groaned. While Mike always considered me to be absentminded, the truth was, I was fanatical about my keys and my purse and had never lost either. “Do you have time to take me home? I have a spare set there, and I can get a taxi to take me back here.”

  “Sure, it’s on the way.” He shifted into drive and waited for me to fasten my seat belt. “By the way, I told Mike you were staying at my place. Last night, I mean. I called him after I picked you up.”

  Ah. The mystery of why Mike hadn’t reached out to me was solved. I should have known that Sam had reported in—he and Mike were bosom buddies when it came to taking care of me. “You should have just taken me home.”

  He chuckled and pulled forward. “Yeah, you were not down with that idea, and you know I always follow drunk Lillian’s instructions.”

  “Drunk Lillian has not made an appearance in quite some time,” I defended myself. When I did used to get drunk—and there had been a period, a few years ago, when I had gone through a bit of a phase—my personality had certainly harshened under the influence of alcohol. I didn’t believe it until Jacob filmed me, sputtering and bossy in the kitchen one night, insisting that brownies must—from that point on—be made with miniature M&M’S, an opinion I was pushing as if it would change the course of our lives. I’m serious! I kept saying. Stop agreeing with me as if you aren’t taking this seriously! Someone needs to write this down! The video was mortifying. I’d watched thirty seconds of it and then retreated to my room, where I decided to never come out, and to stop drinking.

  My self-imposed isolation had lasted for a few hours at best—and within a couple of weeks, I resumed my regular schedule of wine and cocktails. But I’d avoided getting too drunk. At least, until last night. And blacking out—well. That was a first for me.

  As Sam’s SUV hummed down the road, I refreshed my email, hoping to see a “haha, I’m just kidding” email from Fran. Instead, I got an error message, stating that my email login credentials were wrong.

  Already, I was out in the cold.

  Sam pulled into our front drive and parked in front of the Tudor-style garage doors. He handed me his copy of our house key, and I let myself in, then ran the spare back to him. Jacob was at school, so I stripped in the laundry room, then jogged up the carpeted stairs and straight into our master bathroom. Using extra apple-scented shampoo, I washed my hair, conditioned, and rinsed well, squeezing out the excess water before I wrapped myself in a fluffy yellow towel and stepped out.

  As I dried off, I reassessed and solidified my decision to keep my job loss from Mike. I worked from home already, so he wouldn’t miss me heading into an office, and I could fill the time normally spent in interviews and obituary creation in other ways—like figuring out what to do with the rest of my life.

  Thumbing through the hangers, I pulled out a lilac pantsuit normally reserved for weddings and the occasional church event. This seemed like a worthy occasion to dress up for; I just wished I knew if there was something I was going to be apologizing for.

  I put on a pair of pearl earrings and pulled my wet hair into a low bun. Maybe I should write a novel. Something about a scorned wife who hunted down her husband’s mistress. Research would be required, of course. I grinned in the mirror, then watched my smile crumble as a wave of emotion hit me. God, what was I going to do for work? Newspapers and magazines were laying off writers right and left as internet blogs took over, subscribers opting to read their news for free and online. Paper newspapers were, as one millennial had told me (while sipping from a paper cup), like . . . the most wasteful thing ever. She predicted they would be outlawed within five years, and I wasn’t entirely sure she was wrong.

  I considered heels but didn’t want to tower over Fran, who could be a little sensitive about her height. Pulling on a pair of gold-and-tan flats, I headed downstairs. The spare key to my Fiat was in the kitchen drawer, next to ones for Mike’s and Jacob’s cars. I pocketed it and flipped through the rest of the drawer, seeing what other replacements I could pilfer. There wasn’t anything else of use, so I shut the drawer and then scheduled a ride pickup. Four minutes away.

  Going out front, I brushed the dust off one of the rocking chairs on our shallow front porch. Pulling it to a spot in the sun, I opened my Twitter account and stared at the @themysteryofdeath account.

  There was a riddle still outstanding. A mother, her son, and her husband were all at home on a quiet night, and one of them had died. In last night’s eventful evening, I had neglected to leave a clue, and the thread had exploded with theories and opinions. I should give them something, some subtle hint that the mother is the one who dies, but it seemed too fitting, with my termination email fresh in mind, to give the hint I had originally planned, which was that the wife had recently been fired.

  Still, my creative energy was too low for deviation, so I typed out the clue, then posted it.

  Maybe it was time for @themysteryofdeath to die. I couldn’t see continuing it, without my job, which sparked the ideas and gave me access to the Times database of obituaries and news. And after all, keeping it up would be like clinging to my old career in that way, which was a little pathetic, right?

  Maybe. I watched the car service pull up to the curb.

  I wasn’t sure I was ready to kill that part of me also.

  CHAPTER 20

  LILLIAN

  My large and crowded key ring sat in the middle of Fran’s neatly organized desk. I stared at it in shock, momentarily forgetting why I was there.

  “Surprised at something?” she asked dryly, her New York accent perking its head.

  “Those are my keys.” I pointed at one of the attachments, an outdated plastic photo of Jacob when he was starting kindergarten.