“It’s okay if you don’t,” he says, probably used to reactions like mine. “Whatever will help you during this trying time. It’s what we’re here for. The choice is yours. People often see it as part of the grieving process.”

I wonder if he’s fucking insane. Of course I don’t want to see her. It’s the absolute last thing I want to do. I don’t need—

Validation? it asks. Because what if she’s not really dead? What if this whole thing is a mistake? What if one day, and one day soon, there’s a knock on the door, and she’s there? What if she’s there and she’s coming to take Izzie away from you? What if she comes back and ruins everything all over again? What would you do then, Bear?

“I don’t think that’s—” Otter starts.

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I want to see her. Now, please. Take me to her now.”

“Shit,” Otter sighs, but he doesn’t let go of my hand.

IT’S HER.

She’s gone.

Her skin is pale, and she’s covered with a heavy sheet, and Mr. Sampson is saying that if we have something we’d like her to be buried in, we could provide that. It’s horrifying, because he says they can do her makeup, that she’ll look nice if we wanted to have an open casket for the funeral and—

Luckily for me, there’s a trash can that I just make it to before the scant breakfast I choked down comes right back up. Otter’s hand is at my back, rubbing slow circles as my stomach turns, as my throat clenches until there is nothing left.

It’s her, and she’s gone, and she can never hurt us ever again.

I don’t look back as Otter leads me from the cold, cold room.

“WE’D LIKE to talk about cremation,” Otter says.

“Of course,” Mr. Sampson says as if it’s nothing. “I can suggest a crematory that will accommodate you. The turnaround time is usually three to five days. Will that be sufficient?”

“The ashes can be shipped?” I ask, my mouth still bitter.

Mr. Sampson finally cracks. His eyes widen, but he recovers. “Of course.”

“Good. I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to.”

“THE KEYS,” I tell the neighbor as she answers the door. “You said—”

She holds out her hand, and I give them to her. “Is it empty?”

“Yes. If the landlord finds anything else, he can keep it. Throw it away. Whatever. We’re done. We won’t be coming back.”

She nods. “I’ll make sure he gets these.”

I mumble my thanks and turn, heading toward the road where Otter waits, trailer loaded, ready to put this place behind us.

“She said something about her son once,” the woman calls out behind me.

Goddammit.

I stop, but I don’t turn around.

“I think she was drunk.” The woman laughs dryly. “Well, I know she was. She liked her Jack, didn’t she?”

Yes. She did.