For the first time since I started school in Utah, my mother was home when I got there. From the way she looked at me I knew that she knew about Grace. I walked past her without speaking. I went to my bedroom and slammed the door. I hated her for knowing what had happened.

She followed me and stood outside my door. “Eric.”

I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of needing her sympathy. “What do you want?”

“Did you hear…”

“Did I hear what?”

She paused. “Did you hear about Madeline?”

“What about it?” I said.

“I’m sorry,” she said and walked away.

CHAPTER Thirty-seven

To hate is to feel strong and to be weak.

GRACE’S DIARY

For the next two days I didn’t speak to anyone in the house. I could see the pain my silence caused them and it made me glad. Whether it was misery looking for company or the pursuit of vengeance I don’t know. I wasn’t really that introspective. It was probably a little of both.

Every time my mother tried to speak to me I walked away from her. Disrespect wasn’t tolerated in our home but this time neither of my parents challenged me. Maybe they realized what they’d done and felt the guilt I thought they deserved. Or maybe they instinctively sensed just how close I was to the edge. I was close. There was something new inside me. Something that felt strong. It had no heart, no reason, and, most exquisitely, no fear. It was hate. It welcomed a confrontation. It hoped for one.

I had decided to run away. I had already packed what I needed and decided to leave the night of Grace’s funeral. I had a pretty good idea of what running away would entail. I had taken care of a runaway. I could take care of myself. Even if I couldn’t it didn’t matter. If I had learned one thing from all this it was clarity. I knew who the enemy was. And I would do anything to punish them, including hurt myself.

Friday night my mother came to my room. I was alone, as Joel had slept with my parents every night since I’d turned on him. The light was off and I was in my bed, though a thousand hours from sleeping. She knocked once, then stepped inside, staying close to the doorway.

“Eric, can we talk?” she asked softly.

I didn’t answer but rolled to my side. I could hear her swallow. She just stood there, a shadow, wondering what to do. Finally she said, “Madeline’s funeral is tomorrow at noon. We’ll all be going. I hope you come with us.”

I didn’t answer. She sighed. “Good night.”

She shut the door.

I shouted after her. “Her name isn’t Madeline!”