The timestamp matched the minute Margaret’s heart stopped.

I didn’t cry. Something cold and methodical settled in my chest instead.

I opened a messaging app still logged in. There was an unread text from Marcus’s sister, Jessica, who had skipped the funeral citing a migraine.

Elena, is Marcus actually in Boston? A friend of mine just saw him at the Honolulu airport with some blonde girl. This has to be a mistake, right?

His lies were already leaking. I thought about the memorial service that morning — Uncle Richard, smelling of stale beer, barking, “A funeral with no eldest son is a disgrace.

You clearly failed to reach him, Elena.” Aunt Susan sneering, “You probably drove him off with your incompetence.”