Frances slipped into the basement as soon as she returned from her mercifully brief job search. So what if the place was sketchy? She lay on the couch and drifted into a murky, jet-lagged sleep, then woke to the sound of a truck stopping in front of the house, its radio blasting “Echo Beach, far away in time” – then the song went silent as the engine was cut, followed by the slamming of a door. She crept to the window and watched Bernie wander up the lawn. No Robyn. Bernadette spotted Frances, waved then drew her finger across her neck as though she were slicing it with a knife. She crouched at the window.
Frances slid the glass open. “Where’s Robyn?”
“She stomped off in a huff.”
“You’re totally wasted.”
“A little,” Bernadette said.
“What happened to Robyn?”
“Did you know that i***
