“They did such a good job. He looks so peaceful,” I remember someone saying to my grandmother, who patted them on the arm and replied, “He looks like a schmuck.”

All that I remember after that is the yelling: my mom at my grandmother, my grandmother back. How thankful I was to not have to go up to his body, look too closely at it. I knew it was an it, even then. My grandfather was gone. That’s why my mom was so upset.

When she got sick, Mom was explicit: no chemicals, no viewing; she wanted to be cremated. I followed her wishes to the letter. There was no wake. I held a small gathering at our apartment, which turned into a packing party by the end. There’s a sharp pull in my gut at the memory.

The Bergens are traditionalists. I can’t see Natalie in her casket with the black-clad mourners crowded in front of it, their dramatic sobs rising every so often over the din of low, polite chatter. But I know she’s there, rendered perfect and serene by some underpaid undertaker.

I wish I weren’t here. But I have no choice. Everyone in town has shown up. Everyone. Including all the liars—Luke, Morgan, Gabriel, Mayor Bergen—each displaying varying levels of grief. Morgan’s hovering by the door, eyes rimmed red, as if she’s still debating whether or not to come inside. Luke sits with his head hung low in the back row of chairs, as far from Natalie’s casket as possible—distance due to guilt? Gabriel’s in the corner wearing an I-do-not-want-to-be-here dourness. I know it well. I’m sure it’s on my face right now, too. I wonder if this is his first wake since his father’s death.

And then there’s the mayor. My stomach churns with rage at the sight of him standing stoically beside his doting wife as they receive people’s condolences. Including Morgan’s. Finally, she decides she’s in, and the first thing she does is make a beeline for the mayor, grasping his hands with both of hers.

“I am so, so sorry,” she says, but her eyes bore into his, begging him to slip away with her.

With no reciprocal signal, reluctantly she relinquishes the mayor’s hands and moves over to Dr. Shelby, repeating her condolences. But they’re hollow; she can’t meet his wife’s eyes. Even though I know the affair was entirely cultivated by an adult taking advantage of an underage girl, I can’t help but hate Morgan a little for her hypocrisy.

Dr. Shelby is working hard to put Morgan and all the other mourners at ease, the consummate grief professional. Little does she know Morgan has put a knife in her back.

I follow after Morgan. I want the truth.