My lawyer told me not to talk to you
I almost laugh. Of course his family’s already called him a lawyer.
I’m about to type Fine when Seth writes, Will you come to Thatcher’s wake?
I’m already shaking my head.
I don’t think that’s a good idea
Please?
I stare. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Seth say please.
Before I can think it through, I write back, ok.
7
I shouldn’t have come.
It’s four days later, and my dad, Davy, and I are at Thatcher Montgomery’s wake. The funeral, which apparently takes place tomorrow, is private, just for family, but the wake is open to the whole town. Davy insisted we come.
The morning after Thatcher’s death, I told Davy what happened, the remains of our cereal in front of us.
My brother’s eyes were round. “Is Marion okay? Did you see her? Did you—”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I didn’t see her or talk to her. I’m sorry.”
He looked down at his phone, then back up. “Was it…another accident?”
Davy has always claimed to buy the police’s theory that Fiona’s death was an accident. I’m not sure if that’s what he really thinks, or if he doesn’t want to believe his girlfriend’s family is capable of murder. But he has to know that two accidents, almost exactly a year apart, is incredibly improbable.
“I don’t know,” I told Davy. Then I fixed my eyes on Dad. “All I know is it wasn’t suicide.”
I hated my dad’s theory the most. That Fiona had grown up to be too much like our mom. That that’s what probably happened to Mom, too.
Fiona was under a lot of pressure, he would say whenever we talked about it. You don’t know what’s going on in someone’s head. She could have just decided it was all too much.
Or Thatcher could have pushed her, I would answer.
But then: Who pushed Thatcher?
Dad cleared his throat. “If the police want to talk to you again, I should be there.”
“Dad, I’m eighteen.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t come with you.”
“I think it does, actually.”
His eyes went to his phone. “I could call— A lawyer would—”
“Dad.” The last thing I need is him blowing our meager savings and my and Davy’s college tuition on a lawyer. “No one’s accusing me of doing anything to Thatcher.” Yet. “I’ll be fine.” Probably.
Dad let it drop, for the moment.
The next day, Thatcher’s death was all over the internet. All over Citizen Sleuths. Links to Fiona’s death were obviously made. I saw theories about serial killers, forest ghosts, that it was a guilt-induced suicide.
That it was Seth. That it was me.
I know you’re not supposed to read the shitty things people say about you online. But I needed to see what they were saying. There’s this one user in particular, RdHerrng41, who just loves discussing their theory that I killed Fiona because I was jealous of how good she was at ballet.
I was jealous. But not of Fiona. I was jealous of ballet for taking her away from me.
Now RdHerrng41 was back, positing that I killed Thatcher because he had something on me. Someone else wrote that Thatcher actually did kill Fiona, and I killed him for revenge. I read all the threads about me until my head spun and my screen was swimming before my eyes.
I didn’t want to go to Thatcher’s wake. But there was no way Davy would be deterred from the chance to see Marion. And I wasn’t about to make him go without me.
There was also the fact that I told Seth I’d go.
I haven’t heard from him since that night. And if we aren’t supposed to be talking to each other, I’m not sure if being in the same room is the best move. But I know Seth, know how close he was with Thatcher. He’s going through what I went through last summer. And the only person who can understand that is me.
So the afternoon of the wake, it was with a mingled sense of dread, empathy, and obligation that I put on an itchy black dress, too hot for mid-July, slicked on tinted lip balm, and touched Fiona’s little gold ballerina necklace before climbing into the front seat of my dad’s car.
I can feel the eyes on me as we make our way across the parking lot of McCarthy’s Funeral Home, a small, sad brown building with green awnings. Mrs. Rodriguez, Gen’s mom, stands a few car lengths from us. Her brows come together the moment she sees me, and she leans in closer to whisper something to the woman she’s standing with. I look away.
Mrs. Rodriguez is Detective Ramsay’s sister. Rodriguez is her married name. She was never all that nice to me, even when Gen and I were little. I never really knew why. Is Ramsay allowed to tell people details of the case? I don’t think so, but I also don’t think Ramsay’s the most ethical person in town. Like, how else would the detail about my hair on Fiona’s shirt have gotten out on Citizen Sleuths if he hadn’t told somebody?
More eyes turn toward us as we get closer to the funeral home. It feels like it’s only been weeks since I was last here, instead of an entire year. People were looking at me then, too, but at Fiona’s wake, it was in sympathy. The stares didn’t come until later.