I’d been to enough memorial services in the last year to know that this would probably be the routine for the next two or three hours, whether it was Jewish tradition or not. Guests would arrive, sign the book, and walk down the main aisle to greet Mischa before lingering in front of the closed caskets for a few moments and then taking seats. This was what I’d expected, but observing it with my own eyes made the complexity of what I was going to have to pull off at any second more difficult. If Mischa stepped away to get a cup of coffee or to use the restroom for a few minutes, that might throw off the whole plan. I visually measured a length of about three feet from Mischa’s body on the floor, and noted where I’d have to pour the rum-and-cornmeal mixture on the rug.

I reached into my bag and handed the cornmeal, which I’d wrapped in a plastic grocery bag in an attempt to be somewhat covert, to Henry. “Like a watery paste,” I reminded him. He nodded, took one more look at Mischa, and vanished to the men’s bathroom.

In Henry’s absence, I felt self-conscious and was reminded of my status as a person of intrigue around town. People from Willow High School—some of whom had cheered when Mischa and I had been tossed out of Violet’s New Year’s party, but who’d still shown up to pay their respects—stared at me and whispered behind hands cupped over their mouths. From across the room, Mrs. Gomez, my former Spanish teacher, smiled weakly at me but made no attempt to walk over and say hello. Tracy Hartford glared at me from over the top of her Styrofoam coffee cup, and then giggled when Michael Walton whispered in her ear.

Tracy Hartford. I’d risked my life to save hers, not that I had expected her to appreciate it.

Once upon a time I’d loved this town. I’d considered our community tight-knit because of the way everyone had come together to support my family after the fire, because of the way that everyone’s parents would buy chocolate or cookies during school fund-raisers, and because everyone knew their neighbors. Now I could see how easy it had been for them to kick me out of the circle, and it made me sad to realize how badly I wanted to be welcomed back in.

I took a quick peek at my phone. It was two fifteen. Cheryl had been done with her shift at the juice bar for an hour and fifteen minutes, which I had assumed when plotting my timeline to be just about as long as it would take for her to drive home, change into a black outfit, drive over to her boyfriend, Dan Marshall’s, house to pick him up, and then arrive at Gundarsson’s. It was—terrifyingly—showtime. At any second now, we could expect her to appear in the wide double doorway with Dan, and we’d have to be ready for action.