She pops up with a bottle of whiskey. I forgot that Brett hid his booze with the dishwasher soaps. She spins her heels and collects a wine glass from another cupboard, pouring the whiskey to the brim. It’s like watching a fissure run through a person made of stone. I don’t like it. “Rose, not to lecture you at this really sensitive time in your life,” Lo says, “but that’s not how you drink whiskey. And as an expert in liquor, it offends me.” She glowers, one so fierce that my breath dies in my chest. “You’re not an expert in liquor. You’re an alcoholic.” She sets the whiskey bottle on the
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