'What is Lucas saying? Warren is dead? How is that possible? Is it a joke? Some kind of drinking game?'
Iris grasped at every possibility she could think of, anything to push back against what Lucas had just told her. But it was ten in the morning, hardly the time for drinking. And she knew, deep down, that Lucas would never joke about something like Warren's life.
Three hours later, Iris was back in New York. Standing in front of Warren's grave, she still could not shake the feeling that everything happening today was a dream. When had she last seen Warren? She stared at the black-and-white photo on the headstone, and the only thing her mind could retrieve was the brilliant fireworks from a year ago. That night, he had driven her home. Before he left, he had said one last thing to her.
