Page 66 of Pretty Dead Things

I was almost to the front door when my phone buzzed with a text from Olivia:Hide. She’s on her way back.

I bolted up the stairs, into Olivia’s staged bedroom, and dove into the play tent in the corner, zipping myself inside. The vinyl walls smelled faintly of plastic and dust, the little mesh windows no protection at all.

The front door chimed open, and I ducked as low as I could, listening to the footsteps rising up the stairs toward me. One by one, the doors opened, each hinge creak a warning shot. My pulse thudded in my throat.

Then the handle twisted and the door yawned open. I tried not to move, tried not to breathe, as I squinted through the thin plastic wall at the blur of her silhouette in the doorway.

I was sure she could see me—my outline, my heartbeat, the heat of me. The SD card burned in my clenched palm, and all I could picture were the worst clips—me with a joint at my lips, me stumbling drunk at the edge of the water, me pulling Mr. Magnuson into the shadows.

Image is everything.

“Sarah Lynn.” Hannah’s voice yanks me back, like she’s pulling me out of that pink vinyl tent by force. And the way she’s staring at me—she knows exactly where my mind just went.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONEMELANIE

Night has fallen. Outside the tall glass windows, snow slants down in silver sheets, moonlight bouncing off the drifts so that the night looks strangely bright, like twilight stretched too long. Every time the wind gusts, the flakes swirl and scatter shadows across the glass.

Inside, the room is dim, except for the orange glow of the space heaters, the harsh slice of a construction lamp propped on the floor. Every time someone walks past it, their shadow balloons up the wall, stretching long across the beams of the ceiling. The neat rows of chairs are gone, dragged into circles, blankets spread over the floor where girls have curled themselves into nests. A few moms lean against the wall with their eyes closed, heads tipping forward, while others sip champagne from paper cups, laughter too sharp in the cold.

I count my children—one, two, three—the way I always do when we’re out in a crowd, making sure everyone is accounted for. Then I slip down the hallway.

The door is partly open, and I peer in. Olivia lies on the sofa, knees curled up to her chest, and she looks so small it makes my heart ache. Emily perches by her head, stroking her hair, humming, “You Are My Sunshine,” as if Olivia were a toddler.

I knock on the frame. Emily looks up, offers a weak smile, then whispers something in Olivia’s ear before joining me in the hall and shutting the door behind her.

“How is she?”

Emily shrugs, crossing her arms. There are dark shadows under her eyes.

“What about you?” I touch her elbow. I’ve always gotten along fine with Emily. Waylon and I have dinner sometimes with her and Mark, whenever the girls are getting together for one thing or another. Sometimes in the beginning, Cat would lash out at me about it, when she was drunk or high, throwing punches at the world. She’d say I betrayed her, that I replaced her with a new best friend. But that wasn’t true. No one could replace Cat, not for me. The bond we had went deeper than friendship. Our souls knitted together so tightly sometimes I felt I’d suffocate. Now it’s like half my heart’s been ripped from my body, the wound raw and open. “You can’t pour from an empty cup,” I tell Emily. “Why don’t I get you some food?” The refreshments table is still laid out, picked over and stale.

Emily tips her head toward the main room. “Mark’s getting us some sandwiches now.”

“That’s good.”

“I hate seeing her hurting.” Emily means it. She’s been a good mother to that girl. When she and Mark first got married, they tried for kids of their own, but after two miscarriages, Emily didn’t want to try anymore.God already gave me a daughter, she told me once. Now, Emily grinds the heels of her hands into her eyes. “I’m just so tired, you know? I’ve done this so many times. Over and over. Sitting on Olivia’s bed, rubbing her back while she cries because Cat let her down.”

Heat flashes through me. “Cat didn’t let her down,” I remind her. “She’s dead.”

“Oh, God, I know. Sorry. I know. I’m just tired.”

We both turn to see Mark heading our way, a plastic plate piled with finger sandwiches.

I give Emily’s arm one last squeeze. “Take care of yourself, all right?”

Back in the main room, I scan for my children again. The women drinking champagne are talking louder than I think they mean to. “She was the first one here. That’s all I’m saying,” Beverly Jean says, throwing up her hands.

“Who was the first one here?” Kennedy Claire asks, the sharp click of her heels echoing across the floor as she marches up to the group.

“Oh, hey, honey,” Beverly Jean croons, all syrupy sweet, the tops of her ears blushing pink. “Why don’t you join us?”

Kennedy Claire looks down on Beverly Jean like she’s a piece of gum stuck to her stiletto. “Don’t let me interrupt you. Go on.”

Lindsey laughs nervously. “We were just saying you were the first one up here, getting things ready for the pageant.”

“All by yourself,” someone else adds.

The air hums with implication. Early morning, the construction site deserted, the Amenity Center empty, not a single witness. Only Kennedy Claire. And Cat, of course, down at the model home.