‘Seriously,’ I said, aware that what I said next would likely make her uncomfortable. ‘He’s essentially public property now. He might as well be, like, a bench.’

June stared. Blinked. Yes, surprise, I’m a weirdo. Just firmly drawing a line in the dirt between your world and mine. This was not how normal people spoke about dead loved ones. But the unexpected happened: she laughed. Hesitant at first, I think to gauge my reaction, but then it bounded from her, deep and musical. I wasn’t immediately convinced but I found myself smiling in return, not because what I’d said was especially funny but because it was funny that I’d run out of school to find the homecoming queen at my dead dad’s grave.

‘Are you sure?’ she said. ‘Really. I can totally go.’

This was my chance. Take it back, Sydney. Tell her to beat it. But I didn’t think I wanted that – my curiosity won. ‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘Honestly, it’s … it’s nice to have … company.’ What was I doing?

June nodded, seeming to understand something I didn’t. ‘OK.’

She sat back down at the plot, and I sat opposite her, Dad wedged between us. We both knew the question that was coming – What the hell is going on? – and it was a matter of which of us would be the one to ask it.

That’s when it started raining. Not enough for me to care about it – ‘a gentle misting’, Dad would have called it. Light rain was ‘a gentle misting’ and heavy rain was a ‘deluge’. He’d say stuff like that with some not-quite-English accent that he thought was the funniest thing ever. (I wake up early on a wet Saturday, come downstairs and he says, shit-eating grin plastered on his face, book in his lap, ‘Were you awoken by the deluge?’)

June spoke first. She pulled her olive-green jacket tighter round her waist, hugged her knees to her chest, and laughed despite herself. ‘I should probably explain, right? You … you must think I’m stalking you or something.’

At first I thought it best to feign indifference, but little flames of anger still flickered in my belly. No, I wasn’t indifferent. I cared a lot. ‘You probably should explain.’ But that was too mean.

June was quiet, then she exhaled. ‘I’m so sorry, I –’

‘You were at the funeral.’

She nodded.

‘Not for very long,’ I added.

She shook her head.

I felt in control of the conversation. Not because I’d taken it; she was letting me have it. ‘Did my, uh, speech scare you off?’

June didn’t laugh at this. ‘No, that wasn’t –’

‘It’s OK,’ I said. Right. Jokes about murder accusations during moments of bereavement paranoia were off-limits. Maybe because the paranoia had actually scared her off. ‘Why’d … why’d you leave? So quick?’