deep red of the blood. I remember how his breath and even his skin smelled like bourbon. I remember how startling the realization was—once I knew Harry might live, I knew what had to be done. It wasn’t his car. No one knew he was here. I had to get him to the hospital, and I had to make sure no one found out he’d been driving. I couldn’t let him go to jail. What if they tried him for vehicular manslaughter? I couldn’t let my daughter find out her father had been driving drunk and killed someone. Had killed his lover. Had killed the man who he said was showing him he could love again. I enlisted Nick to help me get Harry into our car. I made him help me put the other man back into the totaled sedan, this time in the driver’s seat. And then I quickly grabbed a scarf from my bag and wiped the steering wheel clean, wiped the blood, wiped the seat belt. I erased all traces of Harry. And then we took Harry to the hospital. There, bloodstained and crying, I called the police from a pay phone and reported the accident. When I hung up the phone, I turned and saw Nick, sitting in the waiting room, blood on his chest, his arms, even some on his neck. I walked over to him. He stood up. “You should go home,” I said. He nodded, still in shock. “Can you get yourself home? Do you want me to call you a ride?” “T don’t know,” he said. “Tll call you a cab, then.” I grabbed my purse. I pulled out two twenties from my wallet. “This should be enough to get you there.” “OK,” he said.