“Trust me. I’ve buried two husbands. Anniversaries. You always forget the ones you want to remember. And always remember the ones you want to forget.”

I think about Matthew’s suicide every single fucking day. I recite his note, in silence, again and again, each night before I go to sleep. On Monday, the five-year anniversary, I repeated the letter sixty-seven times in my mind before the words became a dream. And in the morning, as always, they were real again.

You learn early on in this game that they lie about the goal. The very point of my job is, on paper, to stop the supply of illegal drugs. But this is impossible. No, my job is not to prevent perpetrators. My job is to punish them. To hurt anyone who profits from this shit.

“Things like that, puts it all into perspective.” Nell sighs. “You just realize . . . when you lose someone. None of it matters. Nothing. Not work. Not money. Nothing. Nothing matters more than family.”

Grabbing my head, I stand, turn to her, and open my mouth to speak. But it’s like a bad dream. No words come out. “Help me,” she whispers, “please . . . you know what to do.”

Two hours of hard work and the kitchen looks . . . well . . . still like a murder’s just happened, but it’s getting better.

You get numb, I find, at times. Maybe numb isn’t the right word. It’s more that you feel nothing at all. Like in memories. It’s not really you. Not in any meaningful sense. It’s only you when it’s now. But now is fed to the past every second of the day. Fed to history, like wood to a fire—the real story’s in the flames, the smoke, the ash.

Foster isn’t a bad guy. But he’s hard work to be around for any length of time. Like a buzzing insect. Almost certainly harmless, but really fucking annoying.

One day, you’ll do everything for the final time and you won’t even realize it. Your final meal, your final kiss, your final glimpse of the sun. I just can’t wait anymore.

“Drugs are not the enemy,” he says, his eyes wide and mad again. “The enemy is hopelessness. The enemy is empty lives. You think those lost souls under Blue Bridge would be smoking junk if they had something better to do? Addiction is a lot more complicated than chemical dependence.” He smiles slightly. “You know this. You have firsthand experience. Tell me about Matthew.”

“Way I see it,” she says, as we carry on walking, “if you haven’t got something you should just make your own. You need money, make some. You need a family, make one. This world doesn’t give you anything. It only takes stuff away.”

That is the only fact I know in my heart about the future. Whatever happens after Thursday, however Edward reacts to his arrest, well, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. I am not corrupt. I am not a criminal. This is not who I am.