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“Of course they were.” I scroll through my emails. I’ve always resisted the Sellecks’ offers. Partially because I had no idea what I’d do if I sold, but mostly because of Zeb: He was burned alone. No matter how many bodies I watch become ashes, no matter how many T-shirts I wear or favorite bands I play, I can’t shakethe thought or the guilt. Now, with a one-way ticket plan, I fully intend on taking the Sellecks up on their offer so I can get out of here—even if I have to carry the guilt along with me in a U-Haul across the country—just not yet. I haven’t said anything to Wanda and Dondi because the house hasn’t convinced me it’s worth two pennies. Other than the view, it sucks. “Did he tell them to suck a tit?”

She laughs, loud this time, her prominent bust bouncing with the shake of her shoulders. “I’m sure he said, ‘The Dondinator will ask the Ash Queen.’”

I can hear that.

But—I check the clock, and it’s only eight a.m. and Dondi doesn’t usually deliver any bodies from the morgue until after nine.

“Why was Dondi already in this morning?”

She presses her heavily hair-sprayed hair with a hand, knowing look on her face. “He helped me move the rest of my stuff in.”

My eyebrows raise; her painted lips form a heart-shaped pout. There it is: Dondi and Wanda are fucking in my bed.

I’ll be cremating that mattress.

“Don’t look at me like that, Scotty. We’re humans.” She pauses to shimmy. “We aren’t all like you.”

My chin jerks back. “What isthatsupposed to mean?”

She shrugs, smug look on her face. “I don’t know, honey, maybe you should ask that dog of yours.”

At my glare, she strolls away.

Thirteen

“Wereyouandmydad a thing?” Wren asks, peeling a strip of wallpaper.

“Hm.” I swallow my initial response ofpiss offdue to not wanting her to slip off into another silent hole and drag a sponge down the wall. “I’ll make you a deal, every time you ask me a question, I get to ask you one.”

Her eyeliner makes her look like an extra in a scary movie as she looks at me. Nearly three weeks of her showing almost daily and I still don’t know much about her. If she needs me to talk to get her to talk, I’ll play.

“Fine,” she mumbles.

I wedge a scraper under a lifted corner of wallpaper. “We were a kind of thing,” I start, choosing my words carefully. Not sure how to explain the kind of thing that consumes you mind, body, and soul. The kind of thing that makes you see forever only to find it was a mirage. “We were never anything official. But I never datedanyone else as long as we were together—which was years—I don’t think he did either. Of course, I never gave him the satisfaction of asking.”

“Why?”

“That’s two questions,” I say, raising my eyebrows. “But I’ll answer because I’m feeling generous.” She rolls her eyes. “I always thought labels were pointless. Everything I witnessed showed me a title never guaranteed happiness or love.” I shrug. “My parents were married, but it never made them happy. I never wanted it. I thought if it was meant to be it didn’t need a name, it just was. I think it drove your dad crazy how untethered I was.” I laugh softly. “Probably still does.”

“And now?”

“I draw the line at three questions,” I deflect. Because what happened was, after years of him chasing me around, my brother died and Ford ran away to start a new life that didn’t involve me, leaving me to pick up the pieces of how much damage that caused—how broken he left me—alone. “My turn.” I desperately want to start with a heavy hitter. About her mom, her eyeliner, hell, even her sweatshirts that make no sense in the weather, but I have a feeling she’ll shut down. So instead, I go easy. “Why do you like Lindsey Stirling?”

A smile curves her lips as she peels a section of paper from the wall. “I like that there’s no lyrics. You can decide if the song is happy or sad, you know? If it’s about love or loss or . . . dandelions and marshmallows.”

“Aren’t you an insightful little sh—” She looks at me. “—ellfish.”

She almost laughs.

“My turn again. Do you want to date my dad now?”

I debate slapping her.

“That’s . . .” I stare at the ugly plaid wallpaper, searching for a word both meaningso bad it hurtsas much asover my dead body. “Complicated.” When she starts to open her mouth, I add, “We’re nothing. And I’m selling this place and moving.”

She makes a disbelieving sound. “Where are you moving to?”

“The desert.” I point to a stack of real estate magazines at the base of the steps. “Arizona maybe. I’m still thinking. Maybe New Mexico. Or Utah.”