“It was Norah’s idea.” Landry wipes at her eyes again, smearing more mascara. “She started it so we could … um … She called it ‘controlling the narrative.’ She said that if we told the story we wanted people to believe, no one would find out the truth. I didn’t think it would work. I thought someone would figure out she was mine, because of the shirt and the bag. But that just never happened.”

“Because Norah told everyone the baby was mine!”

“I’m so sorry!” Landry cries. “I was so mad at her for that. And she promised she wouldn’t do it again. And I tried to fix it. But she was really excited by all the new followers we got every time we posted, and every time that started to slow down, she had to post something new. To keep the story alive. To keep people interested.” Another tear rolls down her cheek. “And people really seemed to care about her. About Lullaby. I got to name her on Twitter, and there were so many messages, and it started to feel like she hadn’t really died. Like she was still alive, as long as people remembered her. So I let it go too far, and I’m so sorry.”

She let Norah take it too far. And Norah didn’t care about Lullaby’s memory. She only wanted the attention, even if no one knew she was the one pulling the strings.

“Norah and I started fighting. I’d get mad about something she posted, and she’d apologize, and we’d make up. But then she started getting mad. Because I got to help with the candles, at Sophia’s house, and she didn’t. Then I went to the vigil without her. She said I was leaving her out. Leaving her behind.” Landry leans forward and drops both of her used tissues onto the coffee table next to my mother’s untouched mug. “Then, yesterday, Beckett figured out about the Cryer, and she deleted the account. So, I think … I think this is over now.” She exhales, and her shoulders slump with the motion.

“Landry, I am so sorry,” my mother breathes.

My sister shakes her head. “It isn’t your—”

“Yes, it is,” Mom insists. “I should have known … I should have seen … I should have noticed that something was wrong.”

“Everything was wrong,” Penn tells her. “It’s hard to notice one extra drop of water in the ocean.”

“Until that drop becomes a tsunami.” Mom tears up. “Your dad used to say that.”

“I’m sorry I became a tsunami,” Landry whispers.

“No, honey. You’re not a tsunami. We’re going to talk about all of this at length. But first, we’re going to get you to the doctor.” Mom snatches her phone from the coffee table and starts texting.

“But it’s Christmas Eve.”