Page 79 of Pretty Dead Things

I grab a pair of chairs and bring them over as well. “Cat was the one who sent you that invitation,” I tell her.

She stops and looks at me.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. We never knew for sure it was Abel. Just had our suspicions. Cat always felt guilty about it. And, I guess I always felt like she was my responsibility because of it.” Guilt is a terrible thing to live with. It’s a slow-acting poison, a cancer that spreads to every part of your body.

She looks at me a moment, and then her face falls. “God, Mel, I’m so sorry. For what we did. For everything we did.”

I pull her into a hug. I want to tell her thatit’s all rightor that she hasnothing to be sorry about, because that is comfortable to say, because that is a reflex. Instead, I say, “I forgive you,” because what I really want is for her to forgive herself.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINEINGRID

Kennedy Claire is bent over a box, tucking tissue paper between glass vases. Her back is to me.

“I think that’s the last of it,” I say. “I’m going to head out.”

She doesn’t answer right away. I stand there, watching her shoulders rise and fall. I’ve known Kennedy Claire long enough to know that she can be selfish and ruthless, manipulative and controlling. But she can also be fiercely loyal. In so many ways, she was a good friend. I think about the time my appendix burst and Kennedy Claire got the first flight out to sit by my hospital bed, reading gossip magazines and making me laugh through the pain. For the big things, she always showed up.

“I’ll see you around,” I add, and start to turn.

“I thought he killed Izzy.”

Her voice halts me cold. I turn back. She’s still facing the box, but her hands are motionless now, the tissue paper trembling just slightly between her fingers.

“That’s why I didn’t give you Ben’s message,” she says, finally looking at me. Her eyes are glassy, but her chin is high, like she’s daring me to hate her for it. “I couldn’t send my best friend off to meet a killer in the middle of the night. That would have been completely insane.”

I nod my head, afraid that if I speak, my voice will crack. Becauseit all just makes me so sad, the terrible loss of Izzy, of all of us, for all these years.

She softens. “I didn’t know,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

I step forward and put my arms around her. For a heartbeat she stands stiff, then exhales and leans in, just enough.

“Me too,” I whisper.

CHAPTER NINETYSARAH LYNN

The house is an icebox. Our breath shows in little clouds as we move from room to room. Mom sent Kayden to the garage to flip the breaker, and we can hear him through the wall, tripping over boxes in the dark.

Mom perches on the edge of the sofa, arms wrapped tight around herself, eyes somewhere far off. I take a seat beside her, the silence between us sharper than the cold.

Finally, I can’t take it anymore. “I know you want what’s best for me, Mom,” I say, and my voice sounds too loud in the frozen quiet, echoing off the tile and the high ceiling. She doesn’t move, acts as if I haven’t spoken at all.

Suddenly I remember being three, maybe four. Mom had me at some kind of event, adults in suits and dresses, perfume thick in the air. I stared down at my pink cupcake dress and the sparkly shoes with the plastic jewel on the buckle, holding her hand tight.

Say hello to the nice man, Sarah Lynn, Mom said.

But I didn’t know the man, so I ducked behind her legs, shaking my head. Her hand slipped from mine. She angled her body away. I tugged at her dress, desperate, but it was like I’d turned invisible.

Then a grandmotherly woman bent down.Aren’t you a little doll? What’s your name, sweetheart?

I told her, smiling my best smile.

That’s when Mom’s hand found mine again.

Now I look at her, here beside me, and I remember that she was once a little girl too, desperate to be seen. I reach over and take her hand. She looks down at it, startled.

“Thanks for everything you’ve done to make sure my life is easier than yours was,” I say.

Her face turns toward me.