Olivia sank onto the wooden floor beside the bed her grandparents had slept in, beside the quilt her granny had hand stitched, and cried the tears she’d been holding inside her forever. Drawing up her knees, she let go of the pain, the guilt, the secret. Eventually, Neve crawled over to her and wrapped her in her arms, rocking her. Olivia held on to Neve, clutching her as her body emptied itself of all she’d held inside for far too long.

For many minutes they sat sobbing their grief. For their sister. For the situation they had been raised in. For not knowing. For the things they might have said, the false beliefs they’d held, the mistakes they’d made.

Eventually, Neve went into big sister mode, patting Olivia’s back. “Shh, it’s okay, Liv. You didn’t know.”

Olivia clutched her sister harder. She couldn’t seem to stop the pain from spilling out. She’d held tight to it, shouldering alone the knowledge that Marley had killed herself.

“Liv, Liv, come on,” Neve murmured into her damp temple. “You aren’t responsible. It’s okay, it’s okay.”

“You don’t understand. That night . . . that night that it happened, Conrad came over to my house. He wanted to talk about Marley, and it was the same old song and dance. I told him she was better—I thought she was—and then we drank a bunch of wine . . . and—” Olivia swallowed and squeezed her eyes closed, shaking her head.

“You slept with him,” Neve finished for her.

Olivia nodded. “I loved him so much, and he never saw me. He only saw her. I thought . . . I was stupid. I wanted him, and finally he seemed to want me. All that time that we were together that night, she was alone.” The last word came out as a wail. The sob rose again, and Olivia stuffed her fist into her mouth, shaking her head. She couldn’t take the onslaught of pain, the horror of her own words.

Neve grabbed her by her forearms. “Stop. You’re not responsible, Olivia. You may have made a mistake, but her death isn’t on you. You aren’t responsible, Liv.”

But maybe that’s what she’d thought all along—that she was responsible. Marley had called her three times while Olivia was screwing her ex-boyfriend. How many times had she wondered if things might have changed if she’d only answered? How many times had she imagined her sister all alone in that ratty motel room wishing for someone to answer the phone, wishing someone would help her, wishing their father hadn’t . . .

“I shouldn’t have done that. It was a selfish and weak thing to do.”