The hearse driver still asked if I was okay and offered me half of his mustard-slathered sandwich. I told the man I was fine, and I didn’t want or need his sandwich, or a cup of water, thank you.

Cayla drifted away into the parking lot with a barely audible “Bye.” She moved too quickly for me to ask for a ride, or to do so without being a self-conscious, awkward dweeb.

I asked Mr. Stephens if I could use the phone and he told me there was one in a small office opposite the entrance of Melancholy Sunrise. I headed back into the funeral home, pausing briefly in the foyer, trying to remember if I’d find the Sunrise to the right or left.

“I can give you a lift,” Mercy said, all but shouting into my ear.

Lift? Did I step out of a hardboiled detective novel?

Startled, I spun until I completed two circles. But she was not behind me. The front door was closed. I was in the foyer by myself.

I sputtered unconnected syllables until I mustered a weak “Sorry, what?”

She didn’t answer, nor did anyone else. Was Mercy checking out the other rooms by herself? After all, she had been late and never got the tour from Mr. Stephens. But if she was exploring, wouldn’t I hear her camera going off? What would stop her from taking photos now? No, she had said she can give me a lift. Maybe she was attempting to trick me into searching for her and she was hiding, pressed flat against a wall, or she crouched in a corner, creeping in a shadowed spot near a closed coffin and then she’d jump out and take a picture of the scared-shitless me. I’d only been exposed to her for about fifteen minutes, but I thought she was fully capable of doing something like that. Enough time passed that I questioned what I’d heard, or how I’d heard it. Was it possible she was outside and walking to her car because I didn’t answer her in time? I couldn’t get rid of the image of her hiding on me, and my thoughts turned to mercury in the quiet of the funeral home, its mortal hum of silence, a frequency I couldn’t hear and instead felt in my tightening chest and tingling scalp. Okay, maybe I didn’t need to find the phone and I’d just walk home. No need to get all worked up, get all fuzzy again. Did Mr. Stephens leave or was he still out front? I’d go find him, say thank you, tell him, “Yeah I called but no one answered. No big deal. No, really—”

To my right, Mercy backed out of the foyer closet, wrestling her coat away from bulky wooden hangers, two of which clattered to the floor. Deadpan, she said, “Monster in there. Wouldn’t let me go.”