“I wasn’t expecting anything,” I say again, but my mind is starting to piece together some insane hope that this is a gift from Jenna.

“Strange,” Becky says. “What a mystery! Do you want me to open it for you and let you know what’s inside?”

“No,” I say quickly, looking back over my shoulder toward the store. “No, I’ll come get it. I’m not far.”

“Excellent! I’ll keep it at the front register for you. See you soon.”

I look at the time on my phone and make myself wait exactly ten minutes before I walk the twenty yards back.

In those ten minutes, I contemplate all sorts of wonderful mysteries, finally settling on the insane possibility that Jenna isn’t actually dead and that she was kidnapped by pirates and made to fake her own death because of ransom demands the Williamses never met because Mr. Williams is just as likely to accidentally delete emails as read them. And instead of killing her, the pirates shipped her back to one of their boats in Michigan—because it’s practically an island, surrounded by all that water, and there’s probably a lot of pirate ships out on those lakes—and she is trying to communicate with me via this book she sent.

As a rebuttal, my brain keeps bringing up the image of her in the casket, her dark hair a sharp contrast to the white silk lining, her favorite silver tights tucked out of view. The reminder catches me off guard and I pretend to cough to hide the gasp of grief that claws its way up my throat.

I’m mostly under control when Becky comes to the counter and plops a square brown envelope in front of me.

“Open it,” Becky begs, “I’m so curious!”

Blessedly, my phone buzzes, Mr. Williams’s picture lighting up the screen again, and I am saved from answering her.

“I have to take this,” I say, which is true. I can’t ignore him twice or he’ll go into panic mode, thinking the worst. “I’m sure the package is nothing. Thanks, Becky.”

I practically run out of the store, the package tucked under my arm, my phone against my ear.

“Hello, Mr. W—Mark,” I say. He insisted I finally give up the Mr. and Mrs. bit once and for all at the funeral.

“Amelia,” he says. His voice sounds sunshiny and round. “How are you?”

I’m thrown off by his tone but try not to let it show. “I’m okay, I guess.”

“Just calling to make sure you’re still okay with dinner this evening. We’re picking up those chicken fingers you like.”

“Yeah, looking forward to it,” I say, wrestling the package from under my arm to hold it between both hands. The handwriting is sloppy, almost illegible, but it most definitely says “Care of Amelia Griffin” above the Downtown Books address.