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Mom makes one of her lists, divvying up jobs like she used to do with weekend chores, though instead of vacuum rugs or fold laundry, it contains tasks like get traveler’s checks and collect pawnable jewelry.

“Tomorrow we’ll go to church,”

Mom says, “and announce our departure. And if we can get all our ducks in a row, I’d like to leave Monday.”

“But that’s Melissa’s birthday,”

I protest. “Why so soon?”

Mom puts a hand on Melissa’s shoulder. “It’s not going to get any easier.”

“So she won’t even finish school?” I ask.

“She will, just not here.”

I can’t even look at Melissa, who has tried to remain her steady, solid self through this, but isn’t quite succeeding. I’ve heard the muffled sobs from her room. I’ve seen the tear tracks down her face. Of all the horrible things I’ve done to my sister—and there’s quite a count—this one is the worst.

“If you have any goodbyes to make, now’s the time,”

Mom says, looking at Melissa.

Things are better with Mom. I’m not cold all the time. I still don’t eat or poop or feel physical sensations. But I know I’m alive somehow, because when my sister’s heart breaks, mine does, too.

“I’ll go tonight,”

Melissa says.

After dinner, I pretend to be tired and go to my room. Then I climb out the window and hide in the back seat of the car and wait for Melissa. I’d planned to hide until she got a fair distance away but she isn’t going anywhere. She just sits and taps a pen against the blank page of a notebook she brought with her. Finally, she puts the notebook down and backs out the driveway.

“Don’t be scared,”

I say when she turns onto Summit.

“,”

she says, putting her hand over her heart. “What are you doing here?”

“I came for moral support,”

I say, climbing into the front seat. “And also I need to say goodbye to Calvin.”

“Okay.”

Melissa looks miserable. I get that offering moral support at the same time as asking for a favor reeks of selfishness—classic —but that’s not entirely it. I think I still need to make things right, or righter, with him. Especially if we’re leaving.

Melissa’s frown deepens. “There’s something I need to tell you about Calvin,”

she says. “I’ve been going back and forth on it and while I know it might hurt you, I think you should know.”

“What is it?”

She takes a deep breath, lets it out. “The reason Dad thought Calvin was guilty was because he acted guilty. He just disappeared. Didn’t come to the funeral. Refused to answer any questions about your mood the afternoon of the accident or where he’d been. And he had a black eye that Dad was convinced you gave him in some sort of scuffle.”

The thought of me giving Calvin a black eye nearly makes me laugh. It’s like a sparrow attacking a grizzly bear.

“Let’s say for a minute he knocked me off my bike. It would’ve been an accident. And anyhow, what does it matter now?” I ask.

“He definitely didn’t knock you off your bike. He had an alibi. Corroborated by two other witnesses. Casey Locke and her mother.”

“Why would Casey and her mom have anything to do with this?”

As she drives, the streetlights flash across Melissa’s face, illuminating her brightly before plunging her back into darkness. “Because they were sleeping together.”

“Calvin? Calvin and Casey?”

“Yeah,”

Melissa replies.

We drive in silence as the betrayal sinks in. It might’ve been seven years ago but the sting is a fresh wound. My boyfriend was fucking my best friend. My best friend was fucking my boyfriend. I was alive and then I was dead. I was dead and then I was alive. Is nothing in this world true? Is nothing in this world permanent?

“When did it start?”

I think back to senior year; if anything, Casey, who’d never loved Calvin, was even nastier about him than ever.

“I don’t know the particulars,”

she replies, “but it was going on when you died.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because.”

She swallows. “Calvin was with Casey when you died.”

“They were having sex when I was killed?”

Melissa nods. “I’m sorry.”

She turns on her indicator light and turns right. “Was it wrong of me to tell you?”

“It was wrong of them not to tell me,”

I fire back, staring out the window at the town I thought I knew. “Correction. It was wrong of them to do it! He said I was his forever love.”

“Forever is a long time,”

Melissa answers. “And people make mistakes.” She pauses and looks at me again. “Even good people.”

“Was it all just a lie? Did anyone love me? Did I matter at all?”

“Of course you did.”

“Really? What did I do with my life? Aside from dying?”

“You did plenty. You helped me.”

“Just stop!”

I put up my hand. “I can’t listen to this anymore.”

She drives in silence until we get to the turn toward Whittaker.

“I changed my mind,”

I snap. “I don’t want to see Calvin ever again.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to say goodbye?”

“No. Calvin’s life has gone to shit. It can stay shit as far as I’m concerned.”

Any urge I had to help him is erased. He’s not my Calvin anymore. Maybe he was never my Calvin. Maybe it was all fake. “Let him suffer.”

“I don’t think you really mean that.”

“You don’t? Here’s the thing you don’t get, Melissa. I’m the last person who deserves a miracle. I’ve always been a complete bitch.”

“Oh, trust me, you’re reminding me of that right now,”

she says, before softening. “I’m sorry. I know this a lot to take in. But this might be your only chance to say goodbye.”

Her words hit home. My only chance. “You’re right.”

She turns on her indicator to go left. “No,”

I say. “I don’t want to see Calvin. There’s someone else I need to say goodbye to.”

“Who?”

“Dina Weston.”

Melissa’s mouth opens into an O of surprise.

“I know, I know. We haven’t been friends for years, but she’s been coming to see me at night. I thought Mom told Detective Weston but I guess Dina found out some other way.”

Melissa pulls the car to the side of the road, like Mom used to when we would bicker, refusing to move on until we made peace.

“And in case you’re worried that Dina told the Lockes about me, she didn’t. She got mad at me for messaging Casey, same as you.”

Melissa still isn’t speaking. A truck zooms past, its beams lighting up her face. Her expression is so odd, so peculiar.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

She inhales deeply and then lets it out, as if her breath is deciding something. She turns to me and says, “Dina Weston died four years ago.”