“What smell?” “His—I didn’t—” Her face twists up as she sobs again. She bats at my hand, but when she sees the blood, she shudders. “What? Baby, breathe, tell me what’s wrong.” “His cologne!” she says, her voice flayed raw. “Tropic Blue. The same. The exact fucking same as Preston’s. He always wore it; he was wearing it when he . . .”
