What has this death done to us? It was as though Danielle’s murder had affected each of them directly but differently. She feels, oddly, like she is living with strangers who wear the faces of her family.

She watches people watching her. Because, she thinks, her daughter found the body. People are curious. She doesn’t meet their gazes. She feels sick. She thinks about Danielle and what she could have done differently. She glances around the room, trying to read it. People are scared and they want something done. Their anxiety is not comforting.

She is surprised when it’s Mike who calls the meeting to order. The association president, a normally hearty, gregarious guy named Felipe, is sitting down and looking grim.

“I want to thank you all for being here tonight,” Mike says. “I know…I know Danielle had many friends in this neighborhood. Ned and Peter and I have felt your kindness and your love. I want to thank you all for what you have done for us.”

Mike’s voice shakes ever so slightly. Iris can see a glistening of tears in his eyes as he blinks. She glances over her shoulder. Ten rows of chairs behind her and everyone looks rapt. A couple of people are crying. Iris can feel tears at the back of her eyes, but they don’t seem to want to come forward.

“This has been, as you can imagine, a terrible shock for Ned. He is my priority right now; even though his father is here from London, Ned is like a second son to me.” Mike clears his throat. “I hope you will all keep him as a priority, too.”

The room is silent, until a woman in the back says, “Of course, Mike. We’ll all be here for Ned. And for you and Peter.” There is a hum of general assent.

“And please, remember the Pollitt family in your prayers,” Mike says. “It was a terrible shock for Julia when Ned and she found Danielle, and Kyle and Iris have been at my side every step of the way.”

Iris feels frozen to her chair, and she tries not to flinch when someone behind her—she doesn’t know who—gently pats her on the shoulder.

“There will be a memorial service later this week for Danielle. I’ve asked Iris to speak. I hope you will all be able to attend. Please tell your neighbors who are not here tonight.”

I can’t give her eulogy. I can’t, Iris thinks. Then she feels a surge of strength in her gut, born of desperation, and she decides she can. Only because she must.