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“There’re vases beside the microwave,” Mrs. Connor says. “You can put the flowers in one of those.”

I open the cabinet to find a clutter of glasses and vases and sift through them, settling on a squat round one. But as I set it onto the counter, Mrs. Connor’s voice barks out at me.

“Not that one! It won’t balance out the stems. Get that nice, tall, curvy one.”

“Oh. Right.” I replace the round one and search for something that fits her description. “This one?” I say, holding one up.

From the couch, Mrs. Connor nods solemnly.

I arrange the flowers in the vase, then fill it with water. I’m aboutto leave them in the kitchen but think better of it and carry them to the living room with me, taking care to place them in the exact center of the coffee table.

“Thank you for talking with me,” I say, sitting in the armchair adjacent to the couch.

Mrs. Connor gazes at the arrangement, bringing the plastic mask connected to the oxygen tank to her face, sucking in deeply. When she lowers it, she takes a drag of her cigarette. “No one brings me flowers anymore.”

“Well, I…” My voice fades as I realize in horror that the rest of my sentence was going to be:know you’re dying.“Jenna’s mentioned you like flowers.”

She snorts sarcastically, as if the idea is preposterous.

“So, like I said, I’m a friend of Jenna’s, and I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about her.”

Mrs. Connor’s eyes snap to mine. “What’s she done now?”

“Oh, no. It’s nothing like that.”

I have no idea how to ask what I want to know. From the little Jenna has told me about her mom, and from what I’ve witnessed so far, it seems Mrs. Connor lives in a state of emotional volatility. I don’t want to upset her by bringing up Jules before I have to.

“I noticed that Jenna’s been acting off recently,” I begin. “And I know she’s been spending a lot of time over here, so I was wondering if she’s confided anything in you? Anything that might be the reason behind it?”

“Even if she had,” Mrs. Connor says, “I wouldn’t believe her. She’s a little liar.”

I shake my head. “What do you mean? What does she lie about?”

“Every day, she walks in here, and she tells me she loves me, but I know she doesn’t mean it. Lying through her teeth.”

“Right.” So, Jenna wasn’t exaggerating when she described her mom.

“Jules was the one you should’ve been friends with,” Mrs. Connor says. “Sweet as lemon meringue, my Julie. She died though. Few years back. Did you know that?”

“I did, yeah. I’m sorry.”

“Killed by some son of a bitch.”

“Do you…” I hesitate. “Do you have any idea who it could’ve been?”

“If I did, he’d be long dead. I would’ve hunted him down and killed him right back. If I weren’t hooked up to this goddamn machine, that is.”

“You know,” I say—this seems as good an opening as I’m going to get—“Jenna and I—that’s what we’ve been doing together. Looking into Jules’s case. Seeing if we can figure out who took her.”

Mrs. Connor studies me. “You’re a good one.” She points to my chest with her cigarette. Half an inch of ash falls onto the floor, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “Julie would’ve liked you.”

“It was Jenna’s idea, actually.” I try to hold her gaze, but she turns indifferently to the TV. “Has she mentioned anything to you about it?”

She turns back to me and there’s an amnesiac look in her eye, as if she’s forgotten both who I am and what we’re talking about. I wonder if that’s the cancer. “What?” she snaps.

“I was asking about Jenna. Has she told you anything about looking into Jules’s case?”

Mrs. Connor barks out a laugh that turns into a hacking cough. “Jenna doesn’t tell me shit. She comes over to police me. That’s it.”