Then she hurried toward me, a sealed envelope trembling so badly in her hand that the paper rattled.

“Your mother was terrified this would happen,” she whispered.

Before I could ask what she meant, she pressed the envelope into my palm. My name was on the front, in Mom’s uneven handwriting.

I tore it open beside the flowers. The first line read: If Nicole comes to the funeral, ask her what happened at Lake Maren before she stands beside me again. Beneath it, Mom had written one name: Pearl.

I looked up. The elderly woman was still staring at Nicole from across the chapel. “Who are you?”

“Pearl. I worked with Dorothy at a diner outside Lake Maren, before either of you would remember.”