I place my food at the foot of the bed and go to the dresser drawer and retrieve my piece and weed, pack a bowl. I sit back on the bed to smoke, watching the ghostly tendrils pirouette around me before evaporating. I sit, head against the wall, until my brain is a little muddled, my limbs languid.

And then I get my phone out and download Instagram.

I create a fake account and type Odilie Patterson Newburn in the search bar and wait to see what pops up.

Of course, there are a bunch of memorial pages. Strangers, sob sisters, people lurking on the sidelines who revel in reposting images of her. But finally, I find her account, the fifth hit, Odilie_000. The account is public, and the last post is of her in Michigan with Penelope, stooping down to give her daughter a kiss, the picture filtered subtly, tastefully. Her pregnant stomach protrudes the tiniest bit.

She has a few highlight reels, one titled Food Snaps, another titled Antigua, another titled Penelope <3. She has 8550 followers, which I’m guessing is about double what she had when she was alive, considering all the rubberneckers. She seems to have kept a pretty consistent style throughout her grid, similar colors and filters. Nothing feels out of place.

She posted at least once a week, which strikes me as bizarre given the advent of Stories. But they’re all classic Instagram, especially back a few years ago: pretty sunsets, rosebushes, avocado toast, pink smoothies. It’s all very wholesome with short, sweet captions filled with emojis. Comments from other women saying how great a photographer she is, even though anyone could do what she’s doing with a good iPhone and the right filter.

There are a few pictures of Tom, which I rush past, that I refuse to keep my attention on for too long. “Hot couple alert!” reads one comment; someone years later responded, “This didn’t age well.” I scroll up again, briefly, to more recent years. The birth of Penelope, which, like Kylie Jenner’s newborn post of her daughter, has the most likes of any of Odilie’s posts I’ve seen aside from the final one of the two of them. In the neonate photo, Penelope’s infant feet are clad in tiny pink slippers, her face rosy and wrinkled as a Craisin. Immediately after are photos of small Penelope, sound asleep in a bassinet.

The last in the series is a video of Tom holding her, rocking her, singing to her so softly I can’t make out the song and I pause against my better judgment, my fingers ready but unable to flick out of the clip.