“He told me to tell you,” she said, tapping a pink fingernail against her phone screen.

“He said you always know how to pick the cheap bottles that still taste fine.”

“Why did he put my key fob in his coat pocket last night?”

“He wanted to check the oil,” Chelsea said, turning her back to me.

“He said you always let small details slide on that car, Iris.”

She walked back out into the hallway without taking her wet coat off my bed.

At one in the afternoon, the dining room table downstairs was covered in dealership sales agreements.