I didn’t go to Chase’s funeral, a fact that wasn’t received well by anyone at my old school. I succeeded only in appearing insensitive. And it fueled the rumors that I had something to do with his death, since I was the last one to see him. Though they found no evidence, the speculation of my involvement circled me, and my mom, like a swarm of bees. I knew my absence from his service would only add to the talk, but I couldn’t bring myself to mourn for the boy who had tried to kill me.

But I mourn for Lily. For the friendship we could have had, for the role I played in her death, though I still don’t understand how it happened. I mourn for her friends, who gather here today, red-eyed and pale.

When I reach the auditorium, my clothes feel like they’re glued to my skin. Though the hall is filled with people, it’s oddly quiet, and the air smells like must, made stronger by wet feet dampening the carpet. Large bouquets of flowers are positioned at each of the auditorium’s two entrances, along with an easel holding a large picture of Lily. I stare at her for a long time, attempting to reconcile the Lily who attacked me two days ago with the one in the picture, but I know they’re not the same.

The one who attacked me was Vera.

I shiver, wondering if something like this can happen again. My coin is still missing, and I don’t know what’s happened to Lily’s soul.

“Hey.” Lennon comes up beside me. Her sudden appearance sets me on edge, but I manage to keep a lock on my instinctual reaction to defend myself. That means keeping the thread at bay.

“Hey,” I say.

“This sucks,” Lennon says. “We were just getting to know her.”

“Yeah.”

We’re quiet for a moment. I glance at Lennon and find she’s searching the crowd of mourners too. After a few moments, she elbows me to get my attention. I’m going to have to talk to her about that habit—it’s getting on my nerves.

“I think that’s the boy Lily was talking to,” she says, nodding to a guy with two long, black braids. He has high cheekbones and bronzed skin. His full lips are set in a tight line. He keeps his body pressed against the wall, hands folded in front of him. He doesn’t look up from the floor. He must feel so out of place among so many people he doesn’t know and a school that shamed his girlfriend for their relationship.

“His name is Jake Harjo,” Lennon says.

I glance at her. “How do you know?”

“There was more information about him on Roundtable this morning.”

On the day of Lily’s memorial? “That’s horrible,” I say.

“I warned you.”