Alice is sitting there, trying to process the fact that her death wasn’t part of some big picture, some elaborate design. It wasn’t even an act of careless hunger on Lottie’s part. It wasn’t about need, or even want, and the question that’s been beating like a drum in Alice’s head—Why me? Why me? Why me?—doesn’t have an answer, other than Why not? Because it wasn’t about her at all. It was a shot fired by a jealous ex.
