“Was whatever you wanted worth being found like that?” I ask.
He pulls back. “You’re right. What could possibly be worse than being seen with me?”
“Everyone thinks you murdered—” I start, but break off when I see the hurt in his eyes.
“Do you think I killed her?”
My heart skips. I press my lips together.
Marcus steps close. Closer than my own shadow, his breath warm on my cheek. “Then you better get home. It isn’t safe here.”
I falter, rushing away from him across the empty pavement, a cool breeze cutting through my hoodie. I grip the pepper spray canister, but my pace slows when I reach the opposite curb. Guilt pools in my stomach and I wish for just a second that I’d said . . . something.
I glance over my shoulder, but he’s already headed back down the path, slipping into the trees until he merges with the shadows.
TWELVE
I ALMOST CHOKE WHEN I see the reporters lined up shamelessly outside Grace Community Church, ready to sink their teeth into people coming to terms with the loss of Gretchen. Dina drives past them, ignoring their thoughtless calls. I slip on a pair of cheap sunglasses, though the day is suitably cloudy. The snap of their cameras follows us to the doors. Gretchen would have loved the attention, which gives me some comfort. She could have made it as royalty—always put together with the right smile, the right words. But there’s no way for her to bask in this now.
Once we walk through the doors it’s standing room only. People fill every pew and line the walls. Uncle Noah closed the diner for the afternoon out of respect for Gretchen’s family, but he correctly predicted the whole town would be at the service anyway. Dina loaned me a plain gray knit dress, which I decided is okay since I’m not keeping it and the label is nothing to speak of. My arms no longer sting, but since the scratches still stand out red on my skin, I’m grateful for the long sleeves. I recognize teachers, students, friends, families, even a couple of minor celebrities—a tech sector pundit and a talk radio figurehead. All of them look as shell-shocked to be here as I feel. I take an extra moment to study faces, wondering who among them might have been in the park Friday night. But the harder I focus the more people’s features blend together until I give up trying to see anything through this thick haze of grief. An usher leads Uncle Noah; his wife, Elena; and my cousin toward a row of reserved seats near the front of the room. My mother grips my hand and follows. Dina positions herself on the other side of me. My body flashes hot, then cold at the sight of a closed white casket laden with pink roses near the altar. My mom and Dina squeeze my hands, get me into a seat, but I have never wanted so much to crawl out of my skin.
There’s a white screen above the casket and I’m startled by an enormous projection of Gretchen. It’s a black-and-white picture from her senior photo shoot, and though she’s gorgeous, of course, something about it seems off. I think it’s the color—Gretchen’s hair was vibrant red. I could never decide exactly what shade—it looked brighter or darker on different days, in different lights. She called it “mood hair,” and she had such varied moods, I could never argue with that. But in black-and-white she almost looks blond, and so much more like Kirsten. I swallow hard as it occurs to me they had to use this one because all the color shots of her were taken near the waterfall.
The church is decorated with candles, flowers, and wreaths. A solemn woman plays a grand piano at one end of the room. After a few minutes Gretchen’s family is escorted to a group of seats in the front row. I hold my breath when I see their faces. Her mother wears a blank, medicated expression and leans heavily on Gretchen’s father, who looks just the way he always does, like one of those men who never cries. Kirsten’s hair is blond again, thank God. She hides her face behind a tissue, but not being able to read her expression just makes me feel worse about seeing her the other day. Like if I’d somehow said the right thing I could have made her hurt less.