I have one last glimpse of my home. Thomas’s dark frame silhouetted in the upstairs window.

Then my husband disappears from me.

*   *   *

WE DRIVE FOR a while in silence. There is a barrier between the backseat and the front, formed from Plexiglas maybe, something scratchy but clear. The rear seat isn’t the hard plastic used in so many squad cars for easy cleaning after transporting vomiting drunks. Instead, Kevin and I share the SUV’s original gray upholstered bench seat. It’s comfortable enough, makes it easier to pretend we’re all just friends going out for a drive.

If I look ahead, though, into the front section of the sheriff’s transport, I can see the bulked-up dash, with radio, mounted laptop and all kinds of bells and whistles even my cutting-edge Audi never had. Wyatt is murmuring something into the radio, though with the divider closed it’s hard to hear. Making further arrangements? Maybe I’ll end the night arrested yet.

I try to look out my window, but the impression of rushing darkness makes me nauseous. I wish I were back in the upstairs bedroom, lying beneath my quilt with an ice pack on my forehead. The cool black. The icy oasis to ease the throbbing in my head.

The SUV slows, comes to a stop. Blinker is on. We make a right turn. Off my back road onto a more major thoroughfare. Five minutes pass, maybe ten; then civilization begins to appear. A small strip mall here, a gas station, grocery store, there. A New Hampshire state liquor store.

I feel my body tense. Ready to turn in. Where I buy my supply, I think without thinking. But the sheriff’s vehicle keeps on driving.

“Familiar?” Kevin asks me, clearly cuing off my body language.

“I run my errands here.”

“Makes sense. Shops closest to your house.”

“The bottle of scotch I had that night. Do you know where I bought it from?”

“Yeah, we do.”

“Was it there, that state liquor store?” Because in New Hampshire, you can buy beer and wine in a grocery store, but not hard liquor. That’s controlled by the state.

“Not that store,” the detective says, surprising me.

The vehicle is still moving. This road is nicely paved, which is always a perk in the North Country. I find myself closing my eyes, allowing the movement to lull me. I’m tired. Very tired. That underwater feeling has returned. As if none of this is real, or even happening.

I’m floating along, weightless, senseless. If I could just stay this way, maybe I would never be hurt again.

“Mommy, mommy, look at me. I can fly.”

But it’s not the flying that’s the hard part. It’s the landing, always the landing, that gets us in the end.

I hear myself sigh. A long and mournful sound.

Then the vehicle stops.

Kevin says, “We’re here.”

*   *   *

WHEN I FIRST climb out of the sheriff’s SUV, I’m confused. We’re not on some darkened back road, but at another small shopping plaza. Local store/deli/gas station, what appears to be a real estate office and, yes, another New Hampshire state liquor store. I don’t know this place, is my first thought. Yet I do.

I set down the folded quilt on the backseat, reaching for something instead. Hat, I realize belatedly. I’m still looking for my hat to hide my face from the store cameras. Just as I always do.

Then I feel the first pinprick of unease. Because I’m honestly not sure: Am I trying to keep from being recognized in area liquor stores, or am I trying to keep from being recognized on local security cameras?

Both detectives are now waiting for me.

“Why are we here?” I ask.

“Let’s go inside,” Wyatt says, “have a look around.”

I’m in trouble. I’m not sure where or how, but this isn’t what I wanted, what I expected. The police are supposed to take me to the scene of my car accident. I will walk around. I will know exactly what I was doing, thinking, that night. I will fly through the air. I will finally find Vero. She will forgive me.

Instead we are . . . here.

“I don’t want to,” I stall.

“Just for a moment,” Wyatt says.

“I have a headache.”

“Bet the store sells aspirin.”

I can’t move. I just stare at him. Am I begging, am I pleading, can he see it in my eyes? “I bought the bottle of scotch from this store, didn’t I? That’s why you brought me here. So I’ll recognize exactly where I screwed up that night.”

“Let’s go inside,” Wyatt repeats. “Have a look around.”

Then he and the other detective are already walking. I feel like I don’t have a choice anymore. This is it. Time to confront my fate.

The squat gray building has made some attempt at New England architecture. A covered front entrance, cupola on top, a few false dormers to make it appear more like a house, less like a giant booze-filled supercenter. The automatic doors slide open at our approach. I’m relieved Wyatt and Kevin are in street clothes, because being escorted in by two uniformed officers would’ve been too much. Still, there’s no way to disguise the way they move, assess the scene. They are more than ordinary shoppers, and everyone who looks up seems to realize it. One woman, with a shopping cart piled high with vodka, instinctively looks away. I share her shame.

No one wants a cop in a liquor store, any more than they’d want a priest in a brothel.

I can’t look up. I wander the aisles, find myself almost immediately in front of the collection of scotch. But of course. The Glenlivet is shelved at eye level to entice buyers. The store carries an impressive collection of vintages, including the higher-end eighteen-year-old vice of my choice. I can’t help it. I want them all. My hands start to tremble; then my whole body shakes.

My head pounds, but I also want to vomit. They shouldn’t have brought me here, I think resentfully. Taking a woman with a head injury on an unnecessary side trip. Taking a recovering drinker to a liquor store.

I shoot them both hard stares and have the satisfaction of seeing that at least they’re worrying the same.

“You okay?” Wyatt asks.

“I don’t want to be here.”

“But you recognize this store,” Kevin says. “You walked straight to this aisle.”

“You already knew that!” I’m still angry. I focus my attention on the dirty gray linoleum floor. Anyplace but at the booze.

“Did you come here Wednesday night?” Wyatt asks.

“I don’t know. Maybe. Probably. I guess.”

“Why here?” Kevin picks.

“To buy scotch. Why the hell do you think?”

“You said earlier you were in a hurry that night,” Wyatt presses. “You had to leave fast.”

“Yes.”

“So why come here? Forty minutes from your house, when there’s another state liquor store much closer.”

I blink my eyes, press my hand against my stomach to ease the churn. I don’t know. I can’t answer his question. He’s right. Kevin pointed out the closer store and I knew it, recognized it instantly. So why would I have driven all the way out here?

I shake my head. My nausea won’t abate. My headache is worse and the lights in the store are now hurting me. Dozens of sharp daggers, driving into my temples.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” I mutter.

The detectives exchange another look. I decide I hate them. I wish Thomas were here. I want to curl up against his chest. I want to feel his fingers working their magic on my hairline. He would make me feel better. He would take care of me.

Because he is my everything. Except I’m about to lose him, because I never deserved him in the first place. Vero tried to tell me, but I wouldn’t listen.

Run, she has told me. So many times over the years. Run, run, run. But I don’t do it. I can’t.

My face itches. The stitches. And for just one moment, I am tempted to reach up, tug at the first ugly black thread. Maybe I can remove the seams, then detach my own face, like a section of quilt. I wonder who I would find, lurking beneath my own skin.