The smoke at the cigarette’s tip has now risen very slightly and halos the hint of blonde hair belonging to Britt, whose career feels as if it’s in shambles. At night she cannot sleep. She drives out to the stables, and under the cold starlight she brushes Thumper’s hair in long, slow strokes that leave him shivering. When sleep finally feels possible, she weaves back to her bedroom down deserted country roads, and crashes into the pillows for nightmares of Riggs’s murder, of investigations narrowing like a noose around her neck, and the sweet thrill of killing again, like crushing a cool grape between her teeth. Tomorrow must be different. Every day that she can live correctly, in body and mind, is another alibi.⠀