THURSDAY MORNING, AVA SLIPPED ON a charcoal DVF wrap dress that hit her mid-calf. She pulled on thick dark tights and knee-high boots, topped it all with a black blazer, then grabbed her widest pair of sunglasses and headed downstairs to meet her father. She could have listed a thousand places she’d rather be going than Lucas Granger’s memorial service, but Ava didn’t have a choice.
“Jigar,” her father greeted her, using the Farsi pet name he had always called her. Her mom used to try to call Ava that, too, but her terrible pronunciation always made her father laugh, so she gave up and called her “Muffin” instead.
Ava adjusted the belt around her waist and smiled at him. “You ready?”
“Yes, my dear.” Mr. Jalali reached for the doorknob but hesitated. He looked at Ava as if he wanted to ask her something, but then he shook his head and started out the door. “What is it?” Ava called after him, running to the Mercedes and sliding in the passenger seat.
Mr. Jalali started the car, then gave her a long, heartfelt look. “I just hate that we’re going to a funeral.” He tugged at his collar. “They’re still hard, after all this time.”
Ava swallowed. He was talking about her mom. It wasn’t the only funeral she’d been to—there were others, most recently Nolan’s—but her mother’s had been, of course, the most devastating. She thought back to that horrible day when she and her father sat in the church—her mother’s will had dictated it be a multidenominational service, with both Christian and Muslim traditions—listening to the pastor speak, staring at the big photograph of her mom that they’d picked out together to sit atop her casket. Ava had held her father’s hand tightly through the whole service. In her other hand she was clutching the Beanie Baby dog her mother had given her a few days before the car crash. It had been her last gift to Ava, and suddenly it had seemed like the most important thing in the world.
Ava looked over at her father now, wanting to say so much to him. She missed him so badly; it felt like there was a huge distance between them now, a gap she wanted to bridge. It was sweet of him to come with her to this, she realized. He didn’t have to be there with her. She breathed in, about to say all this, when a crash sounded through the open window. Leslie burst onto the porch, cell phone pressed firmly to her ear.
“No, no, no,” Leslie growled into the phone. “I told you I don’t want any tulips. Tulips look cheap. Do you not understand the ambience I’m trying to create here? This is an important party for my mother. Perhaps I need to find a different floral designer. Because it’s not too late, and I’m sure there are—” Leslie was quiet for a millisecond. “Good. That’s what I thought.”
Ava held back a giggle when Leslie stepped backward and almost toppled over the doorjamb, her free hand flailing wildly in the air. She must have felt Ava’s eyes on her, because she spun around and glared. Then her gaze turned to Mr. Jalali. “Firouz? How long is this thing going to take again?”
Ava’s father shrugged. “A few hours, maybe?”
Leslie looked pained. “I really need you to help me out with the floral design,” she whined, then rolled her eyes. “Whatever.” She went back into the house, slamming the door.
Mr. Jalali set his jaw and backed out of the space. Ava stared at the minipurse between her hands, the moment between them now broken. After a minute, her father cleared his throat. “Leslie is trying very hard, you know.”
Ava gawked at him crazily. “In what way?”
“She wants to bond with you,” Mr. Jalali tried.
Ava snorted. The last thing Leslie wanted was to bond.
“She respects you very much,” Mr. Jalali added. “She’s very impressed by how well you’re doing in school, how high you scored on the ACTs.”
Ava stared at him. More likely, Leslie thought Ava had slept with one of the ACT proctors so he’d slip her some answers. Why was it so impossible to comprehend that she got good grades all on her own? And even weirder, why did her dad think Leslie was Ava’s champion? Was he really that blind? What else about Leslie did he not see?
All of the horrible things Leslie had said to her danced on the tip of her tongue, ready to spill out. Her father didn’t seem to realize who the woman he’d married truly was.
But strangely, Ava couldn’t tell him. It seemed petty, like tattling. She wanted her dad to see things for himself.
And truthfully, the conversation she’d had with her friends the other day was still getting to her. She’d told perfect strangers she wanted Leslie dead. She didn’t want that, of course—gone would be nice, but dead? It bothered her, too, that the list was missing. Could someone have found it? Could that someone have it out for them, picking off their enemies one by one, in some crazy attempt to frame them? But who? And why?