my blinds and sending it back brighter and more beautiful than ever. I wonder what they’d all think if I put it on my head and wore it out there.
I wonder what I’d see.
I grab the white sweater hanging on my desk chair and slide it on over the halo. No point provoking Dad right now.
I leave my room, lingering in the hallway outside the kitchen. I listen, but the words are all whispers. I consider hiding in my room and calling Jake, telling him to call in sick, get over here, help me face this. Instead, I press my head against the wall and I pray. A good one. A long one. And then, sliding on my sneakers, I step into the kitchen.
But it’s empty.
Answered prayer?
“In here,” Dad calls, deflating my happy thought. “Thought we’d be more comfortable this way.”
Maybe it’s not an answered prayer, but it’s progress. I can’t remember the last time Dad thought of anyone’s comfort but his own.
I walk across the kitchen, grabbing a lukewarm pancake from the stack. I tear off a piece and shove it into my mouth as I step through the archway leading to the living room. Dad’s given his chair to Noah, which might be the weirdest thing yet. Miss Macy sits on the couch, her legs crossed, coffee cup still glued to her hand. Sheriff Cahill sits in my favorite reading chair. He’s thumbing through a magazine and puts it down as I enter.
Dad stands by the television, like he’s going to be doing magic for us or something. I expect him to produce a large, flimsy saw and a box for me to climb into.
“Sit, baby,” he says, gesturing to the couch.
Miss Macy pats the spot next to her and I sit, glad I’ll at least have a hand to hold through this whole thing.
Dad clears his throat. “Elle, last night, there was some . . . trouble out at the cemetery.” He rubs a sleeve across his brow and looks around. The cool he seems to have manufactured for this little meeting has fled, and panic takes control of his face. “I don’t . . . umm . . . Mike, you wanna?”
“Sure,” the sheriff says, leaning forward in his chair. But the pity on his face is too much, and I decide. I don’t care what I have to tell this room of people, I’m not pretending my way through this conversation.
“I know about Mom’s grave,” I say. My words are delivered to Dad, but he’s the only one in the room not looking at me.
Miss Macy rubs my arm all the harder, and Noah prays under his breath. The sheriff rolls onto his heels and pushes back so he’s sitting on the ottoman of the reading chair.
“How?” Dad says, his voice strangely gruff. “How do you know?”
This right here, this is why I should have listened to Helene.
“It was all over the news,” Noah says. “All over the papers, Keith.”
But Dad shrugs Noah off. “She doesn’t read the paper. Doesn’t watch the news. Your boyfriend told you, didn’t he?”
I shake my head, but the hatred in his eyes keeps my mouth shut.
Miss Macy saves me.
“It’s been everywhere, Keith. Knock it off.”
The room goes quiet. It seems Dad is still waiting for an answer. He wants to know how I knew, but I’m not going to lie to him.
“Why?” I say, my voice dry. “Why was the casket empty?”
Dad’s eyes snap to Mike’s.
“I swear,” Mike says, “that part wasn’t released to the press . . . to anyone, Keith. No one knows about that. It’s just like I told you.”
“You’re still trying to hide stuff? I know, Dad. Does it really matter how?”
“It’s a small town,” Noah says. “Word gets around.”
“I want to know how,” Dad says stubbornly.
I’m mad now. Really, really mad. “Yeah, well, I want to know why, Dad. Why was her casket empty?”
The sheriff is embarrassed, yanking at his collar, his face slick. “There are several scenarios that fit the evidence, Miss Matthews.”
“No, no, no,” Dad says. “If we’re gonna do this, let me do it right.”
“Good man,” Pastor Noah says.
Dad glares at him, forcing Noah farther back into his seat. Then he laces his fingers and turns to me. For the first time in forever he looks clear. Determined.
I’m hopeful. And then he starts talking.
“Your mother was terminal,” Dad says. “She was incredibly ill and you were very, very small. I needed help. Miss Macy was the logical choice. She was a