Small eyes narrowed, Ryder stared at her for a beat longer, then turned to leave.
“Wait,” Lanie said, grabbing Ryder’s arm. Ryder spun around, surprised, and I saw Lanie’s fingers tighten around her arm. “Thanks for coming. It means a lot.”
Ryder opened her mouth to say something, but then just nodded and left.
I wondered what had happened between them. It had once been impossible to separate Lanie from Ryder. In fact, during our senior year, after a fight with Aunt A over her dismal grades and poor attendance record, Lanie moved into the apartment Ryder shared with her older sister Dani, Dani’s heavily tattooed boyfriend, and a one-eyed cat called Sid Vicious. I nearly worried myself into an ulcer over Lanie’s departure, sure that without any parental supervision, Lanie would stop going to school entirely and might very well cause permanent harm to herself.
Once, I had driven over there, planning to insist my sister come home. Parked in front of the building, a cheaply constructed complex in a run-down neighborhood, I rehearsed the case I’d make to my sister. Just until you finish high school. Mom would have wanted us to stay together.
As I summoned the bravado to go inside, two figures stepped outside. Both were wearing dark hoodies, but I could plainly see Ryder’s hair sticking out from one, and I could recognize my sister’s slouching stride anywhere. My hand was on the door handle when I saw Lanie wave to someone, and a bulky guy with a scraggly beard approached the girls. He said something to Lanie and held out his hand; she reached out to meet him and, as they held hands, Lanie’s eyes darted around guiltily. Then he punched Ryder lightly on the shoulder, said something with a smile, and walked away quickly, head down.
I was in shock. That was a drug deal. As Lanie and Ryder slunk back toward the apartment, hands shoved deep inside pockets, I leapt from the car.
“Lanie!”
They both turned, startled. Lanie’s eyes narrowed like a cat’s. “Get the fuck out of here, Josie.”
Ryder cackled, and together they ducked into the fluorescent-lit hallway. I gave chase, but the vestibule door had locked behind her. There was nothing for me to do but leave, just like my sister wanted.
I stole a glance at a mourner’s watch; only one hour left of the visitation. I could survive one more hour. I had to. I pasted on a smile of grim resolve and resumed my game of trying to remember every detail about each person shaking my hand. Tom Grant, who had lived across the street from us on Cyan Court and had helped Daddy and Pops build the playhouse in our backyard; Jared Waters, who had dated Ellen senior year in high school; Richard Deville, the head of the Elm Park College History Department, my father’s old boss. I wondered if Mr. Deville had been among the anonymous sources Poppy Parnell had consulted; I wondered if he felt guilty about his participation. When he stopped in front of me, though, I just shook his cool hand and thanked him for coming.
“How are you holding up, honey?” Aunt A asked, rubbing comforting circles on my back.
“Hanging in there. How about you?”
Aunt A smiled wearily. “I’m okay. I’m overwhelmed by the number of people who have come to pay their respects to your mother.”
“They’re ghouls, Mom,” Ellen said, leaning over me. “They know that Aunt Erin is that cult woman from that podcast, and they just want a piece of the action.”
Aunt A clucked gently. “Not all of them. Not my colleagues from work, or the women from book club or knitting club. Or the gym. Or how about your old high school friends and their parents?”
Ellen rolled her eyes. “Those last ones are definitely ghouls.”
As Aunt A shushed Ellen, Adam’s parents joined the queue. They looked almost exactly as I remembered them: Mr. Ives with his bold ties and million-dollar smile and Mrs. Ives with her beautiful posture and ageless skin. Their gaze flickered briefly over me and landed on my sister, their faces wearing matching expressions of sympathy. I had nothing to say to Adam’s parents, and I ducked out of line to once more seek solace in the women’s restroom. Aunt A’s expression was sad as she watched me hurry away, but not surprised.
Stepping into the hall, my eyes landed on a lean figure in a dark suit, the back of a head topped with soft brown hair, and my heart seized. Caleb. I took a step toward him, my hand outstretched. In the second before I touched him, he turned, and I realized the man was a stranger.
“Lanie,” he said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Thrown off balance by my mistake, I backed away, grasping inside my purse for my phone. I needed Caleb; I needed to hear his familiar voice telling me that everything was going to be okay. Just as my fingers closed around my phone, I collided with someone. I turned, apologizing profusely, but the words died in my mouth when I recognized Poppy Parnell.
The corners of her mouth tugged into a sly smile as she looked me up and down. “Josie Buhrman?”
“No,” I said, attempting to step past her.
She subtly shifted her body to block my passage and shook her head, her eyes twinkling as though we were playing a game. “No, I’m certain it’s you.” She rearranged her expression into a professional smile and extended a hand. “My name is Poppy Parnell. I’m an investigative journalist, and I’m—”
“I know who you are.”
A self-satisfied expression flashed across her face; she quickly flattened it into one of sympathy. “I thought you might. First, allow me to say that I am extremely sorry for your loss.”
I laughed bitterly. “You aren’t sorry in the least. This is great for your ratings.”
“This might surprise you, Josie, but I don’t subscribe to the theory that all publicity is good publicity. I take no joy in your mother’s passing.”
“I’m not having this conversation with you,” I said, gesturing back to the viewing room. “Not while . . .”
Infuriatingly, she nodded in agreement. “This isn’t the time or place to discuss business. I would’ve contacted you another way, but you’re a hard woman to find. Can we set up some time tomorrow to talk?”
“I have nothing to say to you,” I said, turning away from her.
A thin arm shot out and latched on to my bicep. “Please.”
“Let go of me,” I said, my voice as stern as possible.
“Josie,” she said, as though we were friends and I was hurting her feelings.
“Kindly remove your opportunistic hands from my cousin,” Ellen said, stepping into the hallway.
Poppy dropped my arm, pivoting at the sound of Ellen’s voice. “You must be Ellen Kelly.”
“Ellen Carter,” Ellen corrected, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Right,” Poppy said, pulling a notebook from her shoulder bag and making a note. “I’m Poppy Parnell. I have a podcast called Reconsidered. Maybe you’ve heard of it?” Poppy looked expectantly at Ellen, but Ellen just stared at her with a thoroughly uninterested expression on her face.
Taking advantage of the momentary distraction and sure my cousin could handle herself against Poppy, I disappeared into the crowd.