Behind the woman in the sari sat the coffin, its polished oak gleaming in the sunlight. It was closed; there had been no viewing. The service was shaping up to be a short one. Before the officiant had gotten up to deliver the final eulogy, there’d been a handful of scattered readings from Nisha’s friends, and the Hollier High show choir had sung “Wind Beneath My Wings.” Privately Emma could imagine Nisha snickering at the choice—she hadn’t been a sentimental girl. But there hadn’t been a dry eye in the audience. Charlotte had burst into gasping sobs, mascara running down her cheeks, and Madeline, pale and trembling, balled up her skirt in her fists.

I watched the crowd wistfully. Would I ever have a funeral? What would people say about me then? Would they cry? Watching the casket and the deep hole next to it, a chill went through me—somewhere, my own remains lay hidden, separated violently from my spirit and left to rot. I looked around again, half-hoping to find an ethereal Nisha. But I was the only ghost here as far as I could see.

The officiant had a resonant, musical voice, tinged with the same faint Anglo-Indian accent Dr. Banerjee had. “But I believe we do Nisha a disservice, focusing on what could have been. As we say our good-byes, I ask you not to dwell on what has been lost but to think of what we gained by having Nisha in our lives.”

A small string ensemble played an instrumental arrangement of the Beatles’ “Let It Be” as everyone rose from their chairs and started to mingle.

Charlotte dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a tissue she’d pulled from the depths of her bag. Her long red curls had been pinned up behind her head, but stray coils fell on either side of her round, freckled face. “I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe she’s dead.”

“I still can’t believe people think she did this on purpose,” Madeline said, her hazel eyes wide. She shook her head. “She was fine on Sunday, right?”

Sunday had been the night they’d orchestrated a fake séance to prank a girl named Celeste Echols. It had been the first Lying Game prank Nisha had ever participated in—though she’d been the victim of a few in her time. She’d definitely seemed to enjoy being a part of the production.

“I know. It just doesn’t make any sense. She’s such a good swimmer,” Laurel whispered tearfully. “I mean, she was.”