Two days later, I help Danny haul the stuff Mr. Werner left to him into his room. There’s a lot of it—two guitars, boxes of various games, tennis rackets, and of course, his laptop. The laptop is like a magnet, constantly drawing my gaze to it. Danny puts it on his desk and doesn’t pay much attention to it, but I can practically feel it hum, a sickening vibration from Stacey’s virus, filling up the room until all air is sucked out of it.
“Sooo.” Is that the world’s most obvious so? I believe it is. I clear my throat. “Uh, so. What are you going to do with all this stuff?”
“I don’t know.” Danny flops down on his bed and pats the space next to him. I fold myself into his arms and press my head into the crook of his neck. I close my eyes and try to lose myself in this. Forget about Mr. Werner and his cursed laptop. “Hey.” Danny hesitates. “My parents are coming up here for the funeral, and at first I thought maybe I could introduce you to them, but um, I’m thinking it might not be the best time to do that. Um. I hope that’s okay with you.”
I nearly laugh out loud. In all the mess, I’ve forgotten that they’re even here. It seems ridiculous that he would think of that. Well, ridiculous in a sweet way.
“Don’t worry about it. I’d rather meet them under better circumstances.”
Danny gazes at me, a crease appearing between his brows. “You sure about it? I mean, I do want you to meet them—I mean, if you don’t mind them being complete dicks—”
“Really, it’s fine. I’d love to meet your parents because they’re your parents, and I want to meet my boyfriend’s parents, but I don’t think I’m ready for the whole. You know. The race thing.” The mention of it poisons the moment, chilling me all the way to my core. The race thing. What an innocuous way of referring to something insidious that nearly got me killed. Despite myself, despite all the guilt I’m still grappling with for lying continuously to Danny, I feel a sudden stab of icy hatred toward his family.
“I’m sorry that’s an issue with them.” Danny kisses my forehead. “Thanks for being patient. I’ll talk to them about it.”
I swallow the cold rage inside me and manage a small smile. It’s all for the best that I won’t be meeting his parents, because god knows what I might do or say.
***
The funeral service for Mr. Werner is a lavish one. Very much unlike Sophie’s, which took place really far away from Draycott and was very tiny, from what I heard. I guess her parents didn’t want to call more attention to her death. The school didn’t even bother mentioning any of it to us. But for Mr. Werner, classes are canceled, and a school bus is provided for those of us who want to attend. I most definitely do not want to attend, but I do anyway, for Danny’s sake, and also to keep up appearances and stave off any suspicion.
I sit between Beth and Sam and spend the entire service wringing my hands, watching Danny’s pale face as he gives a heartfelt eulogy. I avoid looking at Mr. Werner’s two kids—a boy and a girl who look about thirteen—sitting at the front row, staring dazedly at the coffin like they can’t believe it’s their dad in there. I get reminded of Papa, when he’d died, and I can’t believe I’m putting two other kids through what I had to go through myself. Even though Mr. Werner was a monster, he was still their dad.
Stop that, I remind myself. Mr. Werner was an awful father. He’d been using his own kids as mere pawns, fighting for them just to hurt his ex-wife. If he was willing to do that, then he mustn’t have been a caring father at all.
Mr. Werner’s ex-wife is also there, and she looks exactly like how I imagine rich, Chinese-Indonesian aunties look. Big hair, thick, immaculate makeup, lips pursed, no tears. Next to her are—deep breath—Danny’s parents. I know because the dad looks exactly like how I imagine Danny will look in thirty years’ time. Handsome, with salt-and-pepper hair and sad eyes. Danny’s mom looks like her sister but with less makeup, and she’s at least dabbing at her eyes a little. Danny’s parents look like totally normal people. Kind. Not totally racist. My insides churn, torn between guilt and anger at the sight of them.
I shoot Danny an encouraging smile and he gives me a small, tired smile in return.
“That was a good speech,” Beth murmurs.
“Yeah.”
The service ends and we file out. Sam wants to go to the front and give her condolences, but I’m pretty sure there’s a special place in hell for killers who give their victim’s family condolences, so I follow Beth out of the church instead.
“How’re you doing?” Beth says, as we stroll out to the church garden.
I shrug. “It’s a weird time.”
“It sure is. It feels super surreal being here at a teacher’s funeral. How’s Danny holding up?”
“He’s…” Not great, but that’s probably normal, given the circumstances. “Coping. How are you doing? I’m sorry I haven’t been around much for a while.”
“I’m okay. Um, I feel like a total asshole saying this, but I’ve actually been super preoccupied by other stuff.”
“Oh?” I perk up. Finally, something that doesn’t have anything to do with any of this mess. “What stuff?”
“Mostly my mom. Argh, she’s the worst. I got a B in my business quiz and she was so angry, loh! She was like, ‘Girl, ah, when I was your age, right, I was selling kueh tutu after school. Each one sell only for ten cents, but by the end of my first month, I earn over one thousand dollars. End of second month, I earn three thousand.’ Like that’s even possible. People don’t even like kueh tutu,” Beth grumbles.
I laugh. “I wonder how much of what parents say is true.”
“Word. I feel like every time my mom tells me the kueh tutu story, the amount of money she earned in the first month doubles. Pretty sure the first time she told me the story, she said she only earned like five bucks after a month. Anyway, it sucks, but it makes me want to prove her wrong, you know? I just want—” Her gaze flicks somewhere over my shoulder and fear flashes across her face. She stops talking immediately, her mouth clapping into a straight line.
My heart rate’s tripled before I even turn around.
A burly, middle-aged white guy is standing right behind me, all up in my personal space. I take a step back. Behind him is a pretty Latina woman in her twenties. They both look very, very serious, and it’s obvious as hell that they’re cops. So this is how I’m going to go down. At Mr. Werner’s funeral, with everybody right here.
“Lia Set—Set-eye—well, shit, I’m not gonna get this right, am I? I mean, these names are ridiculous,” the man says, with a laugh. It’s not a friendly laugh.
The woman behind him steps forward, a flicker of contempt crossing her face at her partner. “Setiawan,” she says, pronouncing it right. And that’s when I know I’m in deep shit. She wouldn’t have taken the time to learn how to pronounce my name unless she thinks I’m somehow important to their investigation.