Mitch: "You're selling our house. Which runs counter to my plan of only wearing one nightgown for the rest of my life and just endlessly wandering our home with a candlestick and this one misery face on my face, forever. I mean, it's why I came home."
Stan: "Cool, except your absence has actually done me one very big favor, in that I was at least quasi-involved in the world because somebody had to be. And that was healthy, because it sped up the time I had to spend feeling awful. So I'm just a little bit further down a particular road than you are, perhaps, and what I'm asking you to join me there. Not too far, just a little farther, where we can contemplate getting over ourselves and attempting to move on with our lives."
Mitch: "You're just saying that because she wasn't your biological daughter."
Stan: "And the better angels of my nature would respond, 'You're just saying that because I am threatening your dismal stasis.' But what I really want to say is, 'The fuck are you to say that to me.'"
Like any particular kind of crazy, grief protects itself. Think about addicts: Nobody will ever turn on a dime and say the nastiest thing they can think of faster than an addict who is questioned about it. Addiction, grief, deep shame, all the really bad things your body can feel, have the extra effect of making you very confused about what parts are you and what are the feeling itself. When you grieve, you are Grieving. When you're an addict, you are Addiction. You are the goddess of this thing that defines you, and the entire world becomes divided into things that are attacking that construct and things that are supporting it. You could go to great lengths to preserve that Thing-defined identity -- from self-immolating peace protestors to poor Marcus Bachman, curing faggots -- and you have to, because it's already the best you can do right now.
Suggesting that Mitch even so much as turn on an overhead light or table lamp isn't just minimizing her grief: You're saying she doesn't exist. You're threatening her life.
Holder: "[Mortifying wigger nonsense.]"
Valet: "Okay, homie. I'm sixteen and a rich kid doing this for college."
Holder: "Yo how about you show me the valet sheet for this one day? And don't go trippin', because despite all appearances we be po-po."
Long story short, Gwen Eaton checked into the Yacht Club valet at 8:37 PM on that very particular night... And she was driving WA plates 563-TB0, which is the campaign car Rosie's body was found in, like twelve hours later. Which Linden instantly knows from just the plates because she is a human Wang.