I watch him walk away, the hole growing wider and deeper. Sunshine falls onto his shoulders, lighting him up like a torch, and for a moment I can hardly breathe.

He pauses. Turns. Sadness tugs at his eyes as he says, “Seems like I’ve been waiting for you to come around my whole life, Lee. But a man can’t wait forever and stay a man.”

And with that, my best friend in the whole world is gone.

Chapter Six

I’ve hardly closed the door on Jefferson’s retreating back before another knock sounds. I smooth down my hair and check my hairpins before opening it again. It’s Mrs. Smith, wife to the judge and mother of Annabelle.

“Oh, Leah dear, I was worried something had happened to you.” She frees one spindly, gloved hand from its fur muff to pat my cheek, but her gaze moves beyond me, roves the interior of the house. Looking for untidiness to gossip about, I’ll wager. Or hoping giant sacks of gold will magically appear on the kitchen table.

“Everyone is waiting for you graveside,” she explains at last.

She’s wearing a funeral-appropriate black gown with velvet panels, but it’s her locket that catches my eye and makes my throat buzz a little. It’s gold, like Mama’s, and etched with interlinking hearts. It contains photographs of her husband and Annabelle, taken when the Smiths visited Charleston on holiday. I know this because Annabelle told everyone at school about it when they got back.

Mama would never have allowed such an expense. The locket I now wear contains a tiny tuft of my baby brother’s hair.

“Aren’t you coming, dear?”

Does Mrs. Smith realize how lucky she is to have a whole family? “Yes,” I say to the locket. “I . . . I just needed a moment to myself.”

“Of course.” Her tone holds a whiff of disapproval. “I’ll walk with you.”

“Thank you.”

She grabs my hand and yanks me out the door. Judge Smith waits in the walkway, and he tips his hat as we descend the stairs. “Glad to see you, Miss Leah,” he says.

I mumble something polite as the Smiths take up posts at each shoulder. They are both long and lanky, and they walk with unerring purpose and perfect posture, certain of their significance in this world. I am towered over. Hemmed in. Imprisoned.

Jefferson’s words return to me like a clanging church bell. I’ll wait for you in Independence.

When we arrive, others are already gathered around the snow-dusted mounds that mark my parents’ graves. The air smells of freshly turned earth. Almost everyone wears black. They huddle in groups, bundled against the cold, their breaths frosting the air. It’s more people than I’d like to see right now, but less than my parents deserve.