"Did she tell you anything else about him, like where he lived or what he did for a living?"

"No, nothing like that." Melanie blew out an acrid cone of smoke.

"How about his age? Or what kind of car he drove or where he was from? Anything like that?"

"No, just that he was a bad dude. Used to smack her around, and she dumped him. She wouldn't take that, forever. That was the thing about Amy. She was the one we all thought would make it." Tears glistened in Melanie's bloodshot eyes. "Two of the counselors came by earlier this morning, they woulda told you the same thing."

Ellen's thoughts raced ahead. "I hate to ask you, but I feel like I need to know. What was it that happened to her? How did they find her?"

"I was the one who found her," Melanie answered flatly.

"That must have been awful for you."

Melanie didn't reply.

"So she overdosed on heroin? How do you know something like that? Was there a needle in her arm?"

"No. She didn't shoot it, neither of us did. She snorted it. There was junk on the table and the credit card she used, a Visa." Melanie tossed her hair over her shoulder. "Anyway, we were supposed to go out that night, but she never met me, so I went over around nine the next morning. She was on the couch, dressed to go out."

"How did you get in?"

"I have a key. She was all stiff. The family thinks she overdosed, but I wonder if it was bad junk." Melanie faltered, then took a drag. "The cops said that she died the night before."

Ellen processed the information. "Why do you think it was bad junk and not just an overdose?"

"You never know with street junk."

"She lived in Brigantine?"

"Yeah."

"By herself?"

"Yeah. She got a room in a nice house and a new job, waitressing at this restaurant. She was going to meetings, too, every day. She never missed." Melanie shook her head sadly. "She's the one who told me to carry Subutex."

"What's that?"

"A pill. If you take it and you do H, you don't get high. Amy always carried two pills with her."

Ellen had heard of drugs like that. She'd done a story once involving Antabuse, a drug that made alcoholics sick if they drank.

"But that night, she didn't take a pill. The bottle was right on her nightstand with the two still in it."

Ellen thought it sounded strange. "So why did she take heroin instead of Subutex?"

"She musta missed it so much. Heroin's like that. You love it and you hate it, so much. She shoulda known better than to buy off the street, even in a nice neighborhood."

"Wouldn't she have mentioned to you that she was thinking of using again? How often did you speak to her, generally?"

Melanie tossed her cigarette b.u.t.t to the sidewalk. "We talked on the phone, like, every day, and she was queen of texting. She texted all the time."

"Did you look at her texts from before she died?"

"Whoa, weird. I didn't. I totally forgot." Melanie was already reaching into her purse and extracting a silvery phone with a fake-jeweled face, which she flipped open. She pressed several b.u.t.tons to retrieve the texts, then started scrolling backwards. Ellen edged close to her, and they read the text together: scored new 7 jeans on sale. wait till u see them! xoxo Ellen glanced at the top of the screen, which showed the time the text had come in-9:15 P.M P.M. "She sounds happy."

"Yeah, mos def." Melanie pressed a few more b.u.t.tons. "Here's another one, from earlier that day, around five o'clock."

Ellen and Melanie put their heads together, and read the previous text, which said: $228 in tips, my best day ever! going to the mall 2 celebrate! see u soon! xoxo "That's so random." Melanie shook her head. "It doesn't sound like she was thinking about using."

"It sure doesn't." Ellen thought about it. "Recovering addicts get sponsors, right? Did Amy have a sponsor?"

"Sure, Dot Hatten. She was here this morning. I don't know if she got a call from her that night. I was too much of a wreck to ask her, and she might not say anyway. They keep everything confidential, like lawyers or something."

"You don't think she'd talk to me?"

"I know she wouldn't."

"Do you have her phone number, anyway?"

"No."

"Where does she live?" Ellen could get the number online.

"Jersey, but if you want to know more about Amy, you should ask Rose. She was here before. She's another friend of ours. She's older." Melanie wrinkled her nose. "She was in rehab with me and Amy."

"Great, can I have her phone?"

"I have her cell number right here." Melanie pressed a few keys on the phone, found a number, and rattled it off.

"Hold on, I have to get a pen." Ellen rooted around in her purse, but Melanie dismissed her with a wave.

"You don't need one. Give me your cell number, and I'll text it to you."

"Of course," Ellen said, a reminder of her age, as she stood on the front step of mortality.

Chapter Sixty-seven.

Rose Bock turned out to be a middle-aged African-American woman with oversized aviator gla.s.ses and a sweet smile. She wore her hair cut natural and had on a blue-checked Oxford shirt underneath a navy suit, looking every inch the accountant. Ellen had reached her on her cell phone, and she was in Philly, so they'd met at a burger joint full of noisy students near the Penn campus.

"Thanks so much for meeting me." Ellen took a quick sip of a Diet c.o.ke. "My condolences about Amy. Melanie told me that you two were close."

"We were." Rose's smile faded quickly. "So how did you know her? You didn't say on the phone."

"Long story short, I adopted a baby that I think was hers. At least that's what the court papers say."

"Amy had a baby?" Rose's eyebrows rose, and Ellen grew officially tired of the reaction.

"Hi, ladies." The waitress arrived with a cheeseburger in a blue plastic basket, set it down on the table, then went off. Rose picked up the burger and smiled sheepishly.

"I can't resist the double cheeseburger here. I traded one addiction for another."

"Enjoy yourself." Ellen managed a smile. "If you don't mind my saying so, you don't look like the typical drug addict."

"Yes, I do," Rose said, without rancor. "I was addicted to prescription drugs, Vicodin and Percocet, for almost nine years. I started with a back injury and never stopped."

"I think of Vicodin as in a different category from heroin."

"You shouldn't. They're both opiates and they work the same way. I might have been in a different income bracket from Amy, but we're both junkies. It could just as easily have been me, lying there today in a box." Rose picked up her heavy burger and took a bite in a way that looked almost angry to Ellen, but she wanted to stay on point.

"I'm trying to learn about Amy's death. The family told me she overdosed accidentally, or that it was bad heroin, street heroin."

"She didn't overdose." Rose shook her head, and laughter burst from a nearby table, a group of caffeinated undergraduates. "More likely, the junk was bad. Street junk gets cut with strychnine."

Ellen shuddered. "Poison."

"Yes."

"Melanie told me that Amy still had her Subutex on her, which she didn't take, and we both read her last texts, which were upbeat. Amy didn't mention to Melanie that she was looking to start doing drugs again. Had she mentioned anything like that to you?"

"No, not all." Rose finished chewing, then reached for her coffee and took a sip.

"I wonder why she didn't call you or Melanie, if she felt tempted to do drugs again."

"You wonder?" Rose winced, between bites. "I'm not her sponsor, but I am, I was, her friend. I would think she'd call me if she wanted to use. I'll never get over this, until I go to my own grave." wonder?" Rose winced, between bites. "I'm not her sponsor, but I am, I was, her friend. I would think she'd call me if she wanted to use. I'll never get over this, until I go to my own grave."

"I'm sorry. You can't blame yourself."

"That's what my husband says, and thanks for it, but it doesn't help." Rose set the sandwich down. "I would have bet a thousand bucks on Amy. She had relapsed twice, but that's part of the process, for some of us. She was finally able to get clean."

"So she never called you, to say she was tempted?"

"No, never." Rose's face fell into pained lines. "We talked on the phone every couple days, and all the talk was easy. She got a new job and she was getting ready to reconcile with her family. So that she started using again, two days after we spoke, well, it was a real blow." Rose shook her head.

"Melanie told me about a guy named Rob Moore, who Amy dated three or four years ago. He was abusive and she got away from him. You know anything about him?"

"Not really. Amy told me that she had a toxic relationship once, that much I know. I never knew his name. She talked about him in group. The therapists might know more, but they won't tell you, that's confidential."

Ellen tried another tack. "Did Amy say where he was from or where he lived? Anything that he might have done for a living? I ask because there's an outside chance that he's the father of my son."

"I wish I could help you, but I can't."

"Wait, maybe this will help." Ellen picked up her purse and pulled out a flurry of papers, one of which was the photo of Amy and the man on the beach, then handed the picture to Rose. Luckily, she hadn't cleaned out her purse after the Miami trip. She pointed at Beach Man. "I think this man might be Rob Moore. Did you ever see him?"

"No."

"She ever show you a photo?"

"No, just told me that he was a jerk." Rose handed back the picture, then paused, her eyes narrowing. "Hold the phone. Last week, she called me on my cell. I wasn't there to take the call, but she left a message, saying something about a 'blast from the past.' " Rose looked away, her lips parting slightly as she reached for a thought. "What was it she said? She had a visit from a blast from the past."

Ellen met her eye, and her blood ran cold.

"Do you think she meant Rob Moore?"

"Maybe." Ellen's thoughts came fast and furious, but it was risky to tell her much more. "What did she say when you called her back?"

"She said she was fine. I forgot about the message, and we started talking about other things." Rose's mouth tilted down, and the realization dawned on her. "You think that this guy came back in her life, but she didn't want to let on? Or she thought better of it?"

"I don't know what I think. I'm trying to figure out what happened. What day was it that she called you?"

"Friday. I missed the call because I was at my son's piano recital."

Ellen thought back quickly. She had met with Cheryl on Thursday night, after which Cheryl sent Amy the email telling her that Ellen was looking for her. Friday would be the night after Amy got the email, a.s.suming she checked her email with any frequency. Ellen felt an ominous tightening in her chest, trying to put two and two together on the spot.

"Why does any of this matter? Do you think Rob Moore had something to do with Amy's using again?"

"I don't know," Ellen answered, feeling an odd momentum building within her. She wished she could tell Rose that she intended to find out, but she was too stricken to speak. Too many things weren't making sense, or maybe they were. She sensed it wasn't speculation. That Amy's death was connected to her visit to Cheryl. That she had set it all in motion. And that Rob Moore had everything to do with Amy's death.

"You there?"

"Sorry." Ellen fake-checked her watch, then rose. "Jeez, I'm late, I should probably get going, thanks so much."

"Now?" Rose blinked in confusion. "We're in the middle of a conversation."

"I know, but I have to go." Ellen grabbed her coat and purse from the seat. "I'll follow up and let you know if I learn anything new. Thanks again."

"You think we should call the police?"

"No," Ellen said, too quickly. "I'm sure it's speculation, but I'll give it some thought. Have to go now. Thanks again."

She turned and fled the restaurant.

Chapter Sixty-eight.

Ellen hurried from the restaurant, her head swimming. She broke into a light jog, pulling her coat around her with a shaky hand. Her heels clacked along the frozen concrete, and she almost ran into two students who came suddenly out of a bookstore. She hurried ahead, ignoring their laughter. Her breath came in short, ragged bursts, fogging from her mouth. Her eyes stung, and she blinked the wetness away, telling herself it was the cold. She reached her car, fumbled for her keys, jumped in and turned on the engine, then lurched into the lane of traffic.

HONK! HONK! A van driver blared his horn, but Ellen didn't look back. It was late afternoon and a premature night was falling, frigid as black ice. Cars clogged the street in both directions, their headlights aglow. She drove on autopilot, through a world that had gone topsy-turvy around her. A van driver blared his horn, but Ellen didn't look back. It was late afternoon and a premature night was falling, frigid as black ice. Cars clogged the street in both directions, their headlights aglow. She drove on autopilot, through a world that had gone topsy-turvy around her.