“Shall we dance?” Ben indicates the writhing mass to our right. “Or drink?” There’s a table in the back where a line of chaperones are pouring soft drinks. It feels too soon to dive in on dancing, so I pick drinks. Ben jogs off to grab them and tasks me with finding seats.

I search the folding chairs set out haphazardly along the walls, seeking a spot not already taken by a purse or jacket, when my name stops me cold.

“Cecelia, hey.”

The concern in it is pure Bronte. With a bracing breath, I turn to face her. Them. They’re a pair, as always. Bronte, in the prettiest baby-blue halter dress, and Amber, in a killer navy boned-bustier top with a black jacket and pants.

It’s time to clear the air.

“We missed you at the funeral,” Bronte says politely, prompting a snort from Amber, who, as always, gifts us with bluntness.

“It was better you weren’t there,” Amber says. “The funeral was a shit show. Your blackmail bombshell was all anyone could talk about. There was some light jeering when Natalie’s parents got up to speak.”

“That’s awful,” I say genuinely. “No matter what she did, or her dad, it’s still a funeral. This is all my fault.”

“No, it’s—”

“Well, yes, but—”

Bronte and Amber trip over each other. Amber defers, and Bronte takes me gently by the elbow.

“Come on. Let’s sit down,” she says. And they lead me to a table closest to the dance floor, ignoring that it’s already laden with other people’s belongings. We form a huddle with our chairs. Bronte starts.

“We were worried about you. But you seem better now.”

“I am. You can tell your dad there will be no more amateur detecting,” I direct at Amber. “I pushed it too far. It was an enticing distraction, trying to figure out the mystery. But real people got hurt.”

“You outed the mayor as a sexual predator,” Amber says. “Fuck that guy. His leverage is gone, so now my dad can actually look into him properly. No more municipal stonewalling. You’re a hero.”

“I humiliated Morgan. Is she here?” I search the dance floor. “I want to apologize, but she’ll probably punch me.”

“She’s more of a hair puller,” Bronte says, in a rare joke. Amber laughs at her. Their levity helps.

“I really didn’t mean to lose my shit at the wake,” I explain. “But everyone was lying. And I wanted straight answers.”

“Keeping a personal secret isn’t always the same as lying.” Bronte sounds so small saying it, and I think about her secret. I have to ask. I don’t know why I didn’t the other night.

“Is Natalie the reason you didn’t run for homecoming queen?”

“What? No.” Bronte is both emphatic and dodging the truth. Amber catches it, too.