“I saw you and your sister in your backyard, holding white balloons.”

Max’s head whipped toward her. How could she know that? How could she possibly know about that? He didn’t even discuss this with his friends.

“Your mother was inside, in her bedroom, and she was…sad. Max, she was so sad I felt like my ribs were cracking and stabbing my heart.” Vera grimaced. “She purchased the Angel of Tears the same day as the balloons. And it was like the moment she touched the statue, all the agony inside her went away—only for a second, though. I watched her set up the shrine in the closet, with some lilies. You and Chloe were outside waiting for her, and she mumbled that she couldn’t ‘go on like this.’ She wanted everything to go back to the way it was before. She wanted that tiny pain-free moment to last, to forget, or feel numb, all the time. She said she’d do ‘anything.’ ”

Max ground his teeth. She couldn’t go on. She, the parent, was having a hard time.

He’d been going to school, working at the restaurant, taking Chloe to playdates, talking to the other moms, and trying to pretend like none of this was happening. His hands balled into fists. A lot of people lost someone the day of the explosion or in the days since (including him!), but they weren’t worshipping demons, abandoning their children, or praying to forget their families. She did that, on that day.

“Are you okay?”

“No.” He huffed like “okay” was a concept in science fiction. “I can’t believe she bought a demonic statue on my dad’s birthday. She wanted to forget him on that day. Every year we each write a note to him and tie it to the string of a white balloon, then we release it into the air. We never got a real chance to say goodbye, so this is sort of our way.”

“That’s really sweet.”

“Yeah, for me and Chloe. Apparently not for her.”

Vera reached for his hand and unfolded his fist, then she intertwined her fingers with his. “When’s his birthday?”

“May eighth.”

About a month before school ended. She said she’d do anything. Max repeated those words in his head.

“When I saw your mom in that vision, her grief was so profound it hurt to breathe.” Vera released his hand, palm on her chest. “I think that’s how the group goes from self-help to demon worship. Once the followers are good and brainwashed, swallowing all the crap the cult is shoveling, what’s a little statue in the closet? The cult says that leaving gifts might solve their problems, then they give them one little taste of relief from their pain. That numbness, it’s like a drug. Your mom would have done anything to feel that way again.”

“Well, she definitely did anything.” Max squeezed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, his body flooded with shame. His mother had willingly done this. Had she thought about him or Chloe at all? “So now what?” His tone was exasperated. “How do we fix this? How do we stop this, if it feeds on grief and half the town is grieving something?”