I’m drunk. I ended up drinking two more margaritas, and Daya had the bright idea to take more tequila shots. My world spins as I stumble up the stairs, a giggling Daya on my heels. We’re both on all fours, our hands planted on the dirty wooden floors so we don’t fall. “Bitch, why did you make me drink this much?” I ask, giggling harder when I almost topple sideways. “T felt it was appro-ahh—appro—priate while we’re inveshtigating a murder,” she stutters, her voice wobbly and filled with giggles. I snort in response, my vision still playing tilt-a-whirl with my head. I walk her to the guest bedroom and help her get to bed. I’m not much help, considering I nearly send us both crashing to the ground a time or two when I try to help her get her jeans off. “How are you going to get yours off?” she asks, staring at my jeans. I wave a hand. “I’m sure the stalker will help me,” I retort. She widens her eyes comically. “If he puts his peen in you, record it. | want to watch it later.” Right now, the prospect of fucking my stalker seems hilarious. We'll both regret it later, I’m sure. If we even remember. We giggle like schoolgirls, her laughter following me out of the room. I lean heavily against the wall as I stumble my way to the bedroom.