Somebody was knocking on his apartment door.

David had gotten home from Virginia a few hours earlier. As soon as his feet touched the ground, he'd made a beeline for the liquor store and was now fairly fucked-up.

Didn't help.

Maybe made it worse.

He couldn't get his head to shut off. Replay after replay.

Flashes.

Beth. Fat. In an orange jumpsuit. A slimmer Beth, at the door, holding Isobel.

Christian.

David could feel the dead weight of his son in his arms.

He let out a sob. He bit the back of his hand, smothering the sound.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

It's over now, he tried to tell himself, rocking back and forth on the floor.

Over, over, over.

Christian. Dead. Dead. Dead.

Another sob was wrenched from deep inside him.

Knock, knock, knock.

Dead, dead, dead.

"David?"

Voice at the door. Woman's voice. Who? Beth?

"David, are you in there?"

Not Beth.

He shoved himself up from the floor. How had he gotten there?

Barefoot, he shuffled to the door and looked through the peephole. Somebody with long, dark hair. Who?

He undid the chain, unlocked the door, and opened it.

Oh. Her. Flora.

"Hi," she said.

It was dark in the hallway. It was dark behind him.

"I went to the SCAD art fair in Forsyth Park," she said, lifting something in a frame. "I picked this up for your apartment." She swung it around.

Lots of color. Bright reds. Bright blues. Was that a cat? He liked cats. Swirly, spinning cats.

"Howdy," he said, stepping backward. The room slanted and he had to grab the kitchen counter for support. "Shit," he muttered, closing his eyes and resting his heavy forehead against the cool Formica.

Flora closed the door, leaned the framed print against the wall, pulled her purse strap from her shoulder, and dropped the bag on the floor. "What are you doing to yourself?"

She'd seen a lot of wasted guys in her life, but the man she'd been fantasizing about for the last several days was about as wasted as a person could get while still remaining conscious.

He was dressed in a pair of black pants that matched a jacket slung over the back of a nearby chair. Along with the jacket was a leather holster and gun. His shirt and tie had been removed, leaving him in a white, V-necked T-shirt.

"Oh, no, you don't," she said when she saw him lifting a fifth of something to his mouth. She snatched it away and read the label. "Gin. No wonder you smell like a Christmas tree." She walked to the sink and dumped the rest down the drain.

He frowned and regarded her as only a drunk person could, through his eyelashes, chin down. "Was I expecting you?"

"I just stopped by. Guess it's a good thing because you seem to be in need of a baby-sitter."

She didn't know what was going on in his life, but he was hurting. Bad. She should have had Strata Luna put together an unfuck-my-life spell for him.

He continued to stare, and she wondered if he even recognized her.

"I like you," he finally said.

"That's nice. I'm sure you'll feel the same way tomorrow," she said dryly.

He let go of the counter and moved toward her, reaching and fumbling for the buttons of her blouse. "Let's just make you more comfortable."

She brushed his hands away. "No "

"Why not?"

She slid his metal watch from his wrist. "You're the one who is going to get more comfortable." She undid his belt buckle and supped it from his pants. "Follow me." Walking backward, she pulled him toward her, moving in the direction of the bedroom.

He minded as best he could.

When they reached the bed, he fell across the mattress, pulling Flora with him. And immediately passed out.

How much had he had to drink? she wondered. More than what was missing from the fifth?

She gave him a little slap on the cheek. No response. She slapped him again. Nothing.

Her plan had been to undress him before putting him in the shower. That wasn't going to work. "David! David, come on. You have to get up."

He groaned.

"Come on." She pulled him by the arms. "Stand up."

Amazingly, he managed to get himself upright. With his arm draped over her shoulder, she walked him to the bathroom and stuck him in the shower, his back to the tiled wall. Somehow he stayed there, even though his eyes were closed and his mouth was slack.

Everybody in the world was a mess. Doctors. Priests. Prostitutes, and cops. Didn't matter who you were, what you did, or how much money you made. Living was tough.

She turned the cold faucet.

At first, David didn't even respond as icy water poured over his head, soaking his clothes. He finally let out a loud, shocked gasp. His eyes flew open and his arms flailed.

"Jesus!" he shouted. "Are you trying to kill me?"

Mercilessly, she let the water continue to pour over him. "You're doing a good job of that by yourself."