Not on Rachel as she approached Vera, whose body straightened, rigid, when her former friend tried to give her a hug. Not on McKnight, leaning against a wall in the corner, eyeing us all, suspecting every single one of us. Not on Sam Alby, still in his seat, his presence its own sort of threat.

No matter where I looked, my eyes quickly returned to the girl I knew as Al, frozen in front of John’s photo, captivated as if seeing a Monet in Paris for the first time. Or perhaps, I thought bitterly, a Van Gogh.

She had lied to me. Purposely given me a nickname that would throw me off. Left out any details of her relationship to John or Vera. She had asked about my neighbors – and more than once – only I’d never put it together. Why would I?

Sam stood, brushing his hands against his sides, then quickly walked toward her. Grabbing her by the shoulder, he whispered something in her ear. Her head twisted away, and she shrugged him off.

He turned, walking briskly down the center aisle.

It was another minute or so before she abandoned John’s photo and headed down the aisle herself.

‘Claire,’ I said as I followed her out, down the stone sidewalk, toward the parking lot. It was morning still, not even eleven, but the sky was a blur of white, as if gauze had been carefully laid over the whole thing, obscuring any sun. Moisture clung to the air, weightless and ready to drop on us any moment. She walked quicker, and I ran to catch up with her. ‘Claire.’

She kept walking.

‘Al?’

‘What?’ She spun on her heel, facing me.

‘Which is it?’ I asked. ‘Claire or Al?’

In the haze, she looked ethereal, a Brontë heroine wandering about the moor, mooning for the older man she maybe thought she loved. ‘Does it even matter?’

‘That’s your dad? You’re …’ My words dissipated like water droplets into the air. ‘You, you knew John … Why didn’t you tell me your real name?’

‘People call me both, okay?’ she said. ‘Have since I was younger. Maybe it’s a little easier to introduce myself to new people as Al now.’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. I just, I don’t understand.’

Claire popped a hand on her hip. ‘What don’t you get?’ For a moment, she sounded just like a teenager, headstrong and hormone-stupid, who thought she knew better than anyone else. Like I had at her age.

‘You could have told me. God, I thought you were in college. I had no idea.’

She pressed her lips together. ‘Maybe I wanted to talk about writing with you, and not talk about all that bullshit. Maybe I didn’t want you to ask me if I was okay, like everyone feels compelled to, even though they know nothing about me. Nothing.’