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“Kitchen. I was in there when I heard. I called you right away. Maybe I should have called nine-one-one, but it was you I dialed. I needed you first.”

Simone goes to the kitchen where she finds an empty bag of gummy worms next to her husband’s phone. Next to that is an open bottle of Poppy’s Ativan, which she stares at for a long moment before putting the cap back on and slipping it into her pocket. She spots something under the baseboard—a green plastic dinosaur. On a recent visit, Poppy was genuinely—and surprisingly—intrigued by Langston’s long-winded explanations about the difference between a velociraptor and Utahraptor.

Somehow, it’s this cheap plastic dinosaur that gets her, more than the blood or the way Poppy’s jaw was frozen in its slackness or how the front of Alex’s shirt was wet with tears. She squeezes it hard in her hand as she mentally rehearses telling Langston that his great-grandfather is gone. Her son’s first brush with death. Not a fish, not a gerbil, not a dog, but a man Langston found fascinating and funny; the person who taught him to play chess and how to tie a bow tie, and gave him a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill for every holiday, even July 4.

Simone is also remembering her own outrage, which was her first and strongest emotion when her mother told her that her father had died. Simone had hauled off and slapped Donette with her small hand because all she could think to do in her frenzy of pain and overwhelm was to hurt the messenger as much as the message hurt her.

Langston’s reaction is bound to be more subdued, but no less devastated. How she tells him and explains the existential nightmare that is death matters, but she needs some time to research the best way to break the news and to “buck up,” as Poppy always admonished Langston when he whined about something trivial.

Back in the bedroom suite, she finds Alex in the same position and worries that the paramedics will have to wrench his grandfather’s body away from him when they arrive. The bloody towels remain on the floor and Simone grabs one, finds a clean corner, and carefully wipes the blood from each of Alex’s fingers. This is a practical act, but more than that, it’s a loving one. When she’s done, she holds his clean hands for a minute before putting his phone in them.

“Here you go. Call Chuck, okay?”

She steps out of the room, less to give him space and privacy and more because she can’t stomach being in the room with the blood and the death a second longer. Within twenty minutes people have been mobilized. Hartwell’s attorney reached out to a friend in the police department, and a sergeant is en route, along with the county coroner. They’ve already agreed to claim “natural causes” on the death certificate, and that’s what, in turn, will be reported to the media and shareholders. No one, besides the small circle of a half dozen souls, will ever know that Poppy took his own life.

Simone should feel relieved about that, because she can see how relieved Alex is. But as she brings the ruined, blood-soaked towels out to the trash ahead of the authorities arriving, a small part of her marvels at how quickly and efficiently powerful men can cover something up. It’s incredible—and telling—to witness just how easy it is to bend reality to your favor.

The house is noticeably still and quiet without Poppy and in the wake of the chaos of police, coroners, and top Hartwell execs. It’s not like Poppy was particularly loud. Since his forced retirement, he spent most of his days napping, or watching golf, or staring intently at The New York Times crossword for hours, pen in hand. And yet, now Simone experiences Poppy’s absence. It’s been less than an hour since they took him away, zipped inside a black bag, gurney wheels squeaking against the hardwood floors. Simone watched from the window as they loaded him into the van with efficient movements and then the vehicle pulled away without ceremony.

Two officers lingered too long, offering too effusive praise about the time Poppy donated new uniforms to the police department softball team. The coroner’s assistant had mentioned how appreciative they were of the substantial food donations Hartwell offered to the annual first responders’ fundraiser. There were many hushed assurances about “privacy and respect for the Hartwell name.” Their references to the memorial service, its size and scope, the eagerness with which the whole town will “come pay their respects,” sent Simone fleeing to the living room, rudely, with no goodbyes.

Alex finds her there, sitting at the dusty piano plunking at random notes for lack of anything better to do. She hopes he will come sit close on the bench next to her so she can try to comfort him. When he doesn’t join her straightaway, she assumes he’s beelining for the bar, but he collapses on the couch.

“How are you doing?” It’s a dumb question to ask; Simone can see how he’s doing. He’s utterly wrecked in a way that almost scares her. It will be her job to fix this, to fix him, and surveying the damage, she’s not sure she’s up to the task. But the moment calls for something. “Hold on. I’ll be right back…”

Simone goes to the kitchen, opens the fridge, and pours two glasses of freshly squeezed lemonade—Poppy’s beverage of choice besides scotch—from the pitcher she made sure was filled every week. She’ll get Alex a drink, probably not the one he wants, but something, a way to take care of him. When she hands Alex the glass, though, he doesn’t even look up. She puts it on the table and slurps down her own glass like there’s something stronger than lemons and sugar in it, something that will fortify her even if all it does is soothe her dry throat.

“This isn’t your fault, Alex, okay?”

“It is, though. I shouldn’t have asked him about the past… I only did it because I knew you weren’t going to let it go.”

“What did he say? When you asked him about what happened to Wade?” As she braces for an answer, Simone can feel the low-level queasiness that’s dogged her for the last two hours beginning to churn harder. And on top of that, with Alex having the nerve to try to shift the blame onto her, it threatens to turn into a full-fledged intestinal revolt.

“He was there that night.” Alex speaks so quietly that it forces her to sit down next to him. She rubs his back as if she can coax him into continuing on. “But whatever happened, it was an accident. He swore it up and down. And that it was Roger’s fault. He’d drugged the poor kid, and then he had a bad reaction. Apparently, Roger just wanted Wade to sleep through final exams because he didn’t want Wade to get better grades. If you can believe that.”

Grades? This came down to grades? Simone isn’t sure what she thought a so-called motive would be or what beef those boys got into, but this explanation is… unbelievable.

“They were just stupid kids, is all,” Alex says, oblivious to Simone’s shocked silence and the distance she’s put between them on the sofa.

How easy Alex is finding it to chalk this up to being “just an accident”; to it being Roger’s fault; to Poppy being just innocently along for the ride; to them being just “stupid kids.”

“Accident or not… someone died. And Poppy was there. He buried him.” Simone states the facts firmly and plainly to give Alex the opportunity to acknowledge how flimsy these defenses are.

“Yes.” One word, and Alex collapses into her. “But it doesn’t matter now,” he murmurs into her chest. “None of it matters. Poppy’s dead. He’s gone. It should all be buried with him. What good does it do blaming him now?”

Simone pushes Alex off her and rises as fast as her voice does.

“Are you kidding me? None of it matters? It still matters. What happened today is tragic and I’m so sorry and sad, but it doesn’t just wipe everything clean.” There’s a fury filling Simone that’s been building for weeks now. Months even? Years? And there’s no way to contain it any longer, so she doesn’t even bother to try.

“There’s a body… a body! One Poppy buried in secret and left for sixty years. There’s no way to pretend that it doesn’t exist. That this didn’t happen!”

“Even if that means blowing up our life? All the bad publicity and the deal not going through, and for what?”

“For what?” Simone has got to stop just repeating Alex’s words back to him, but in her incredulity she can’t help it. “Because this can’t be a secret anymore. Wade and his loved ones deserve some measure of justice or closure.”

“But it’s not like Poppy or Roger can go to jail now, and nobody knows what happened but you and me, and some old lady who I can’t imagine is in any hurry to go to jail herself.”

“And Kwame,” Simone says, bringing her eyes directly in line with her husband’s.