“I thought you said it was religious expression?” Samantha glared at Vera like she’d switched sides. “Everyone has their own way of grieving. Peace comes in many forms.”

“I know, but this isn’t healthy,” said Vera.

“Says who? Why is the Angel of Tears different from a cross? Or the Star of David? Or a statue of Buddha?”

Samantha knew the idol’s name. Why? Vera’s gaze narrowed.

“Because the Angel of Tears has nothing to do with spiritual fulfilment. It’s about taking advantage of people who are already vulnerable and suffering. Just look at the name. Kinda ominous, don’t you think?” Vera didn’t want to tell them about her parents’ work, Maxwell’s mom, or the face of the Angel appearing in the fog (they’d think she was losing it), but she had to offer a little glimpse behind the demonic curtain. “Besides, worshipping idols, especially creepy ones that cry black tears and convince you to pray for death, is like playing with a Ouija board in a cemetery on Halloween.”

“Well, maybe death isn’t so bad.”

Vera blinked at her, momentarily stunned. Then she snuck a peek at Chelsea, whose lips were also parted in shock.

“Are you okay?” Chelsea put her hand on her girlfriend’s shoulder.

“Just forget it,” Samantha huffed, shaking her off. “When you guys lose someone close to you, come back and tell me how you deal with it.”

Then she marched out of the room.

At lunch, Vera waited outside the hospital’s main entrance. She and Maxwell agreed to find a place away from the clattering cafeteria talk.

Vera ran her hands along her cotton scrubs, scanning the cars for the candy-apple-red truck she’d seen parked in his driveway. Eventually, he emerged in a Mets cap, his sunglasses glinting in the afternoon sun.

“I parked in the far lot,” Maxwell called as a greeting. “I needed some air.”

“Understandable.”

Then he hugged her. There was no hello, he just wrapped his arms around her like they were meant to be there. After last night, maybe they were. A collective fear had bonded them. She squeezed her hands around his neck, fingering the cotton seam of his hat.

“You okay?” she asked, her lips close to his skin.

“As good as I can be.” He pulled back, not far, only a few inches, and he kept a hand on her hip. She liked that more than she hoped she let on. “Chloe is staying at her friend’s tonight.”

“The girl from yesterday?” Vera remembered the mom.

“Yeah. Her mom’s not as bad as she acted. Really.”

Maxwell didn’t need to apologize. In fact, if he tried to atone for all the people in Roaring Creek who treated Vera like a wart-nosed witch luring them into an oven, he’d need to block off some serious time.

“Does Chloe have any idea what happened last night?”

“No, nothing. She slept straight through it. But get this.” He took his hand off her hip. “Before she left for Alexis’s, she told me she left an apple outside our mom’s door, so—and I quote—‘Mom will get Sophie to invite me to her pool party on July Fourth.’ What the hell is that? Why does she think Mom can do stuff like that?”