“No,” she says. Penn and I just look at her, waiting for her to process what she’s hearing. Jake squeezes my hand. “So … she’s our family?” Landry says at last.

Penn nods. “Looks that way.”

“So then, we’re her next of kin. We can claim her … body.”

I glance at Penn. Somehow, neither of us has thought of that. Not that it matters. “It’s too late for that,” I explain. “The coroner released her yesterday. She’s at Dunley’s Funeral Home now.”

“Oh. Well—”

Landry’s phone buzzes in my hand—the one not currently clutching Jake’s. I’d forgotten I was holding it. There’s a new text from Norah.

landry i can see that you’ve read my texts

I reply.

come over. bring the burner. front doors open

“Norah’s on her way over with that phone,” I say.

Landry’s eyes go wide and scared again. “Just let me talk to her.”

“I think you’ve done enough of that,” I snap, and Penn gives me another look. “I’m just going to get the phone from her and delete the account.”

“You’re not going to tell anyone?” Landry asks.

“Of course not.” The last thing I want is another news alert about the Bergen family of Clifford, Tennessee. Especially knowing what we now know about my dad.

The front door opens, and Norah steps into the living room. She freezes, her hand still on the knob, when she sees all of us waiting for her.

“They found out we’re the Crimson Cryer,” Landry explains before I can even make it off the love seat.

Norah tosses white-blond hair over her shoulder and gives me a defiant look as I approach her. “Give me the burner.”

“No! It’s mine. I’ll delete the account, but—”

“Give me the phone now, or I’ll go next door and tell your parents—”

“No!” Landry and Norah both shout. “Just give it to her,” Landry says. “Please.”

Finally, Norah digs a cheap smartphone from her pocket and slaps it into my palm. “We didn’t mean any harm,” she says, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Landry shake her head. Telling Norah to shut up.

Smart kid. They’re both in enough trouble without digging that hole any deeper.

“Password?” I hold out the phone, and Norah taps four digits into the lock screen.

“Don’t touch anything but—”

I look up, and it must not be holiday cheer Norah sees in my eyes, because her jaw snaps shut.

While she watches, I open her Twitter app and delete not only the Crimson Cryer account, but her personal, secret account too. But I’m too late to stop the Cryer from tweeting about Lullaby Doe’s funeral. Which means we can probably expect another media circus.