Attending the funeral wasn’t going to be the hardest part. The hardest part would be pretending that nothing had changed between her and Becca. Kissing Jack on the cheek, keeping that unwanted nugget of knowledge tucked away inside her.

Her mother brushed raindrops from her coat. “Will the family come here next summer, do you think?”

“I don’t know. Probably not.” For the past twenty years their two families had spent three weeks together at Lake Lodge. Marriage, kids, life in general—none of it had interfered with that time. It was theirs. A sacred part of their friendship. A time to catch up on their lives.

And then there had been that conversation. One conversation that had changed everything.

And the letter, of course. Why a letter? Who even wrote letters in these days of email and instant messaging?

She’d found it in the mailbox, tucked in between a letter from the bank and an advert for a local pizza delivery service. She’d recognized the bold, loopy writing immediately. At school Becca had frustrated the teachers with her inability to conform. Her handwriting was like everything else she did—individual. Becca did things the way she wanted to do them.

Clare had carried that letter back to the house and set it down on the kitchen table. An hour had passed before she’d finally opened it, and now she wished she hadn’t. Letters got lost in the mail, didn’t they? But not this one. She already knew what it was going to say, but somehow having it in writing made it worse.

She’d almost sworn when she’d read it, but she tried never to swear aloud.

As she held the letter in her hand she could hear Becca’s voice: Say fuck, Clare! Go on! If ever there was a time for you to vent, it’s now.

“You’re getting wet.” She kissed her mother on the cheek, sure now of what she was going to do. “Let’s go indoors. Hot tea and toasted muffins, and then I’ll book my flight.”

Her mother looped her arm into hers. “It’s all horribly sad. You were a good friend to her, Clare, remember that.”

Was that true? Did a good friend tell the truth no matter what the cost? Or did a good friend offer support even when she considered the action to be heinously wrong?

They reached the house and scrambled indoors out of the rain.

Her mother left the dripping umbrella on the stone floor and walked toward the kitchen. “I’ll put the kettle on.”