Robyn was still wearing last night’s black dress; her mascara had been reduced to dark shadows under her eyes. The basement was ripe with the stench that radiated from her: stale booze, cigarette smoke and some sharp, cheap cologne. She held an unlit cigarette between her lips and swayed to The Police.
Frances watched her dad unfold and measure a rectangle of fabric. Robyn had been out all night and Frances was doing her best to not cry, to stay cool.
The song ended and Robyn opened her eyes. “Do you have a light?”
Frances pointed to a lighter on the coffee table.
“I think I’m still drunk,” Robyn said.
“Smells like it,” Frances said. She turned toward the stairs. “Gotta go. See you, Dad.”
Jimmy cut carefully through the fabric. He gave no indication of having heard Frances.
“Are yo
