During the ride he’d tried to wrap his head around what he’d seen, and he’d passed beyond disbelief into a kind of profound numbness. Bridget was dead. She’d jumped from the bridge. That chapter of his life was now completely closed. He trudged from the bus stop down by the high school on Park Boulevard toward his street, across from the 24-hour grocery store—Bridget had always called it the “grab and stab” or the “loot and shoot” because it seemed like the kind of place that probably got robbed a lot—and up the steep hill, past stucco apartment buildings with white-painted wrought iron gates. He wondered when he’d see Echo next, what he’d say to her when he did. They had no plans, but she often dropped by unexpectedly. She would hold him, at least, and would offer whatever other comforts he was willing to accept. She didn’t like hearing about Bridget, anymore than any lover relished tales of her predecessor, but Echo understood the impact Bridget had made on Darrin’s life.
