After pulling every piece of clothing I owned—all of it black—out of the tiny alcove I used as a closet, I put on a tunic that could pass for a dress. Then I added tights and a cardigan that hid the tattoos on my arms. My feet went into a pair of expensive, impractical heels that could only have been a gift from my sister. Climbing the stairs out of my basement apartment in Queens, I felt queasy. But it wasn’t until I took the subway into Manhattan and stood in front of the church that I felt like an imposter.

“Your name and invitation?” demanded a uniformed security guard.

“Deirdre Crawley. I’m Caroline Thraxton’s sister.”

The guard said something I didn’t catch because I was staring at the facade of the church, awash in déjà vu. Catholic churches with elaborate stone scenes of the Resurrection or Judgment Day were a dime a dozen. This one had the Crucifixion front and center, rendered with a grim intensity that hollowed out my chest.

“St. Vincent Ferrer,” I murmured. This was the church where my sister had gotten married four years earlier.

“What was the number on the back of your invitation?” the guard asked, clearly unsure whether he needed to be polite to me.

I blinked, trying to picture it. Some Thraxton minion had couriered the invitation over at six o’clock Monday evening. Remembering Caroline Anne Thraxton, it read, stark black type embossed on thick ivory stock. Please join us for a memorial service and luncheon. It had chilled me, the elegantly thorny black vines winding around her name, ready to choke it.

“It started with a seven.” There had been six digits on the back, but only one came to mind. I’d thrown the invitation onto my bookcase and hadn’t glanced at it again.

“You need that code,” the guard said. “You can’t get in without it.”

At that moment, a switch flipped in my brain. I’d barely slept the night before; the truth was I’d barely slept since my sister had died. I’d made it to the church on autopilot, aware of my own steps as a zombie. But this callous creep was the first obstacle I’d encountered, and all my grief suddenly spiraled into rage.

“My sister is dead, and you’re not keeping me out of her funeral.” My voice was razor edged.

As if sensing that I wanted to hit him, the guard pulled his head back sharply. I pushed past him and stormed up the steps.

Inside, white roses bloomed like a pox on the dark wood of every pew. Guests in couture laughed and gossiped. There were white ribbons and tulle wrapped around towering bouquets at the end of every aisle. The church looked exactly as it had at Caro’s wedding, and I felt as out of place as I had that day.