I peered into the green gloom, then pushed the door open and called, “Burglar here. Anyone home?”

A ruff of ginger hair poked up from the loft bed. There was something of the O RLY? owl in Elle’s just-woke-up face.

“Rise and shine, little bird.” I lifted the bag. “Breakfast.”

Suspicious squint. Her head disappeared.

I’d set the coffee table and sat on the floor by the time Ellis climbed down, all bedhead and confusion, wearing only a tee and men’s tight undershorts. So disarmingly cute. She eyed the food, then me, with astonishment.

“What is this?”

“Bagels and lox and Americanos. Sit.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“Hiked up to the café.” I offered her a paper cup. “Olive branch?”

“Vada, you don’t have to—”

My bad hand wavered. The cup began to tilt and she took it just in time.

Goddammit. I couldn’t even apologize right.

“Okay,” Ellis said softly. “Olive branch accepted.”

We ate in silence while the sun rose, a line of Day-Glo orange torching the horizon. Sunlight streamed through the leaves like stained glass, dappling the cabin with patches of rose and gold. Smoked salmon melting on my tongue. Wood creaking in the breeze. It calmed me, the smallness and peace of this moment. We’d had so many moments like this, me and her. A breakfast spent sitting quietly in the sun. A smile from a train window that stuck with me all day. They gathered in my mind, bright grains of sand shoring up against a dark wave.

As we finished our coffee I said, “I want to show you something.”

I sat beside her on the couch. She shifted her bare leg away from mine.

“There’s some stuff we didn’t know about Ryan. Stuff that might be important.” I switched my phone on. “These will be hard to look at, but I need you to.”

I showed her his photos. The tame ones first. Then the bloody ones.

Ellis covered her mouth.

“He was a cutter,” I said. “This was going on for months, at least.”

She stared at the screen. “Do you think he was trying to kill himself that night? Like, intentionally drunk driving?”

“I don’t know. But some weird shit’s happening here.”

Our gazes flickered toward each other. Then she touched me, briefly, tracing the heart of my palm. Just once, but it lingered in my skin like the buzz of a tattoo needle.

“There’s something else,” she said. “Tell me.”

“Promise you won’t get mad.” Before she could consent, I said, “I’ve been going to see Max these past few months.”

Her mouth fell and I realized how it sounded.

“Not like that. Nothing skeezy.”

“But why at all? Vada, what are you doing?”

“I needed someone to talk to. And so did he. His girlfriend left him; he rarely sleeps. He just works on his boat or sits around obsessing.” I looked away from her face, self-conscious. “I could relate.”

“I see. All that time I was texting you, begging you to respond, and you were talking to him.”

I thought of Blue. “Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger.”

“Well, I’m glad you found somebody.” Her voice was dry and cool. She stood and paced away from me. “What have you been talking about?”

I almost snapped, What about you and whoever’s in your house?, but the absurdity stopped me. She’d said she hadn’t moved on. When we’d kissed, I believed it.

“Nothing important. Until last time, when he unveiled those reports. Elle, he’s going to find things that’ll cause trouble for us.”

“What things?”

“Discrepancies.” A beach-glass dreamcatcher hung from the branch above us, and when the sun shot through, it sprinkled our skin with aqua confetti, like sea spray. “But there are discrepancies in his story, too. The last time I was there he had a gun.”

“Oh my god.”

“He didn’t threaten me. But he said strange stuff. Ryan had the gun the night he died, and the police took it. Then Max said he was a bad father and clammed up.”

Elle frowned, spooling her bangs around one finger.

“It’s weird, right?” I said. “Why would they take the gun?”

“Criminal evidence.”

“But there were no charges in the accident.”

“Maybe he’d already used it. Or planned to.”

We stared at each other, our minds whirring.

“Something happened to Ryan,” I said. “Before that night. All of this points to something really bad.”

“What does it have to do with us?”

“Max won’t let this go. Trust me, I know him. He has nothing but this. He’ll obsess.” Just like me, obsessing over what’s gone. “He’ll keep digging till he finds closure. And if he does, I could go to jail.”

“Why?”

“I lied to the police, Elle.”

She sank to the couch, eyes wide and imploring. “Tell me exactly what happened that night.”

“You weren’t driving, I promise.”

“Don’t lie for me.”

“I’m not.”

She was holding on to a breath, scared to let go. “I remember things, sometimes. Little pieces come back at random. Vada, I remember getting in the driver’s seat.”

I put my hand on her knee, and she didn’t pull away. “You did. But I made you get out.”

“Is that our story, or the truth?”

“Both.” My palm slid higher, unambiguously. “Art is a lie, remember? And all communication is art. We’re never entirely honest. It’s not possible.”

“Do you really believe nothing’s honest?”

“This is. Feeling.” The heat of her skin drew at mine. My hand ran up her thigh to the hem of her tight boxers. “I missed you, Ellis. So much. Eres mi todo.”

You’re my everything.

Her eyes half closed. “Don’t start with the Spanish.”

“Why not?”

“Your voice gets this little growl in it. Like a cat.”

I gave her my best Cheshire grin. “Esta gata te quiere, pajarito.”

On a sun-scoured L train platform in Chicago, the concrete reflecting heat like foil, three Latinos hassled a girl, talking loudly in Spanish about the “red birdie” and flicking their tongues at her and meowing. She got the gist. She clutched her messenger bag to her knees, trying to hide her long bare legs.

I walked up to the group of guys, smiling. “Hey,” I called. “Hola.”

The ringleader, handsome, all stubble and sharp jawline, smiled back.

“¿Qué tal, mami?”

“Déjala tranquila o te arrancaré los cojones, cabrón,” I said.

His eyes bugged. His friends burst into laughter, wild and yipping. He hustled them away, elbowing them when they glanced back at us.

The redhead gave me a quizzical smile. “Thanks, I think. What did you say?”

“Just told him to leave you alone.”

She seemed dubious. I sat beside her on the bench.

“We have a class together,” I said. “I’m Vada.”

The girl stuck her hand out. “Ellis.”

I looked at it, laughed, shook. “Got a business card?”

“Oh, sorry. Not on me. But I can give you my—” Then she saw my face and blushed. “You’re making fun.”

I laughed again, warmer, and she lowered her gaze shyly, but a smile crept over her lips. Her face had an elfin androgyny, fey lines filled in with a soft bloom of watercolor. Orange-red hair raked around her face like flames. She was tall and reedy, sylvan. Instantly I was dying to draw her.

“What did you actually say to that guy?”

“ ‘Leave her alone or I’ll rip your balls off, asshole.’ ”

Ellis’s mouth dropped.

“Think he got the message?” I said.

“Yeah. Probably. Jeez.” She laughed, fluting and sweet. “Can you teach me that? How to swear in Spanish?”

I grinned. “Sí, mi pajarito rojo.”

“What does that mean? What you just said.”

“I’ll tell you, but you have to promise me something.”

Her eyes flashed, nervous, thrilled. “What?”

“Let me draw you.”

(—Bergen, Vada. My Little Red Bird. Watercolor and ink on paper.)