Page 19

I looked away, because otherwise, I was going to make noise.

Maybe I’d sob, or maybe I’d scream, or maybe I’d yell.

I swallowed hard, staring at the shaman as he droned on about what a kind neighbor and a pillar of the community Opal was. Taken too soon, will of the ancestors, we don’t understand the ways of the wind and the current, all that stuff. The things you say when you go to religion for comfort.

Maybe some people really are comforted by that mysterious-ways bullshit, by that reason-for-everything bullshit. I wish I was one of them.

My experience of the world is that it’s brutal and senseless and that—just when you can’t stand it getting worse—it really knocks the wind out of you and you realize there are always lower lows than this one, that there is no such thing as hitting bottom.

I’d rather that kind of pain be reasonless, actually. Thinking it was done to me on purpose? I can’t bear that.

After the funeral, I got out of Cork’s as quick as I could, not waiting for my dad, trying to beat the crowd out of the doors. It was easy because I was in one of the back rows, and I pushed out of the doors and onto the streets of the old town square.

I took off walking, thinking that I should have insisted that my dad and I take separate cars, because I just knew he was going to get stuck talking to people, and he would take forever. We’d agreed that we were not going to the lunch afterwards, which was being held at Opal’s old house, her father’s old house, that fortress of a house where I’d first met her, the one with the wraparound porch and the pool in the back.

As I understood, after the old cyning had passed away, only five years ago, he’d left that place to Opal, but she and her family had not moved in. Instead, they rented it out to vacationers for big money. But today, it was being used as a gathering spot for after the funeral, a big celebration-of-life party. My dad had said I should not go, and I had agreed, and he said he would not go either. I wanted to get out of here.

I wasn’t even sure why I had come.

I was not feeling any closure, none at all. In fact, this was just tearing at things I thought I had buried long ago, ripping open wounds that had scabbed over, and now everything was fresh and bloody and too bright and red.

I took off, walking with a purpose, down the square towards the parking lot where my dad had parked his car. I didn’t run, but I walked fast.

“Leo!”

Damian’s voice. But how had he gotten out of there so quickly when I knew he should have been mobbed by people wanting to offer him their sympathies?

I turned.

No, it was not Damian, it was Vincent. Their voices were similar, maybe. I wasn’t used to hearing either of them speak.

Vincent was wearing a black suit with a black t-shirt underneath, sort of casual chic. He advanced on me. “Hey.”

“I’m going,” I said, but I didn’t go anywhere. I wavered on my black wedge-heeled sandals and breathed noisily as Vincent closed the distance between us.

“I told you about the will,” said Vincent. He was right on top of me now.

Oh, hell, he was going to hug me. No, maybe that would be nice. I lurched right into his arms.

He closed them around me, enfolding me against his chest.

I might have whimpered. I wanted to cry. I couldn’t cry. Just as quickly as the hug had started, it was over as I fought my way free, shaking my head up at him.

He lifted both of his hands, a hands-off gesture. He took a step back.

“You have to be wrong about that,” I said. “I’m not in her will.”

“Check your message requests?” he said. “I think you should have something in there from the lawyer. He didn’t have an address for you or a phone number. It was the only way he could get in touch.”

I got out my phone, opened a social media app, and looked. Oh, wow, there it was. I accepted the message and read it. Dear Ms. Shore, you have been included in the last will and testament of one Opal Hardesty-Lowell. I shoved my phone back into my purse, taking a deep breath. “Well, if I’m not there, what does that mean?”

“I mean, nothing, but it’s inconvenient for the lawyer, I guess. It’d be easier for him if everyone would just show up on Friday. He’s got to track you down, and obviously, that’s going to be tough, since he couldn’t even send you a letter.”

“What kind of lawyer is he?” I muttered. I didn’t know how hard it was to find someone’s address, but I sort of thought it was easy. It was a matter of public record, right? They used to list everyone’s address in the phone book. I had to admit that I had not seen a phone book in, well, years. Did they even make phone books anymore? How many people had landline phones?

“Stay,” said Vincent. “You should stay. I can run interference if you’re worried about Damian.”

“You think so?” I said. “He’s busy, right? He’ll be busy with everything, with all those people, and he won’t even have a chance to talk to me, let alone anything else.”