“Oh. Cool. That sounds fun, actually,” I say, and I’m not just being polite.
I love dogs. I always wanted one, but Gran was highly allergic, and apparently Maggie inherited that gene, because the Shipleys can’t have a dog either. Jess has a big goofy golden retriever who used to sit in my lap and make me laugh with his antics. Ugh. I miss Taco.
“Great!” JP says. “Swing by anytime, then. We’ve got plenty of pups who’d love the company.” He nods at my aunt. “Good to see you, Maggie.”
He’s turning to leave when Nikki suddenly comes stomping toward us, her expression set in a scowl.
“Dad, can we go now? I’ve been waiting forever,” she snaps.
“Sorry, hon,” JP says. “I was catching up here.”
She crosses her arms, not bothering to acknowledge me or my aunt even though she’s fully aware we’re both standing there. “Well, are you done catching up or should I roll out my sleeping bag and make myself comfy on the sidewalk? Because I’m bored out of my fucking mind.”
The tension skyrockets. Nikki’s tone is harsh, dripping with irritation. It makes my skin crawl. My own father is an actualmurdererand I’d still never speak to him with such disrespect.
JP winces slightly but doesn’t say anything back. Instead, he forces a smile and turns to me. “I’m right behind you,” he tells his daughter.
“Thankyou,” she huffs before flouncing away.
“I’m really sorry about that.” JP glances over his shoulder as Nikki reaches the red pickup truck parked nearby. “She’s going through a phase.” He keeps his voice light, but I see the weariness in his eyes.
Maggie nods with genuine sympathy. “Teenage girls are rough.”
Despite being one myself, I don’t disagree with her. I couldn’t imagine parenting girls like Nikki and Jasmine.
JP sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Anyway, if you’re interested in stopping by the shelter, you’re always welcome, Ryan. Sorry again about Nikki.”
He gives us an apologetic look before joining his daughter, who’s standing by his truck, tapping her foot impatiently. I can’t help but feel a little sorry for him. Nikki James is a real piece of work. Entitled brat if I ever saw one.
Maggie clearly agrees, as she lowers her voice and says, “Of all the best friends Jazzy could’ve chosen…”
I hide my grin. “You’re not a fan.”
“Would you be?”
Unable to fight my reaction, I let out a laugh. “Nope.”
“At least Gillian is a sweetheart. I suppose that makes up for it.” Maggie returns the laugh before shifting her gaze to her phone. “Jazzy needs an opinion on the earrings. You coming or still exploring?”
“Exploring,” I answer, and she nods, not seeming to mind.
“Meet us at the car in thirty?”
“Sounds good.”
I walk off, following the sidewalk and window-shopping until I reach the end of Main Street. At a T intersection, I look across the street and spot bare trees, park benches, and a wide expanse of lawn beyond a wrought iron fence. At first, I think it’s another park, until I notice the headstones.
It’s the Starling cemetery.
Something pulls my now-unsteady legs there. I never went to my mother’s funeral—I was whisked away to Allentown before it happened—but I imagine it was a media circus. All Gran told me was that she was buried somewhere in town.
Here.
I’m drawn to it, just like I was drawn to the cabin, dreadingwhat I’ll see and the whirlwind of emotions it’ll create butneedingto see it nonetheless.
Walking among the headstones, I read each name until finally I come to a small one, a plaque raised slightly from the ground, half-consumed by weeds. The grass in front of it has worn away, suggesting it’s had quite a few visitors over the years, likely podcasters like Zed and other people obsessed with the morbid. The stone is bare except for two dates and a name.
Sarah Mayfair
