Deven shook her head and stabbed the picture once more. He couldn’t possibly think that was Kennedy. He had met her sister a handful of times. Surely, he couldn’t be that forgetful.

“Look again Justin. Seriously look at this woman. Sure, they favor, but that’s not her.” A brief swell of hope bloomed in her chest when Justin angled his head to get a better look, narrowing his eyes in consideration. Finally, he sat back with sympathy marring his face.

Deven’s grip tightened on the porcelain of the bathroom sink, her headache returning with a savage intensity. She had a hard time accepting death. Her father’s death had taught her that about herself. Her mother had retreated into the protection of her own mind; Kennedy couldn’t relate since they didn’t share the same father, so Deven had been left to maneuver the grief alone. And man, was it a lonely journey. Her coworkers tried to placate her with condolences about the five stages of grief that did very little to comfort her—she straddled the fence between denial and depression, apparently, never acceptance. This was only heightened after what happened with the twins . . .

Instinct had Deven touching her stomach, as if by some miracle she could still feel their little movements. It was losing her father that had inserted the knife, pretty much losing her mother that had twisted it, and losing the twins that had torn the wound open at the seams to leave her raw and bleeding. She’d been in denial then too, still was on most days. Was it any wonder that she was denying Kennedy’s death?

Something moved behind her. Deven blinked once, then twice, struggling to clear the rest of the water from her vision. Sure enough, there was the faintest of glows as a woman floated up behind her, the bathroom stalls visible through her translucent skin. It was the woman in the morgue—their Kennedy—not hers. But here, up close she looked so much like her it was scary. Perhaps like Kennedy used to look before all the cosmetic surgery. The Kennedy before life happened.

The woman’s smile was sad, and her eyes looked as if she was pleading, though Deven didn’t know for what. Then, as fleeting as a whisper, she was gone. Deven turned around, but of course, the restroom was completely empty, the only sound coming from the water still gushing from the faucet.

That’s how Officer McKinney found her when she swung into the restroom, standing frozen and looking dazed into thin air. “Ms. Reynolds?” she called.

Deven turned, her expression unreadable.

Officer McKinney walked over and flipped down the faucet, abruptly halting the stream of water. “How are you holding up?”