Ms. DeVeau joined Aidy and me on the love seat. A matching one waited across from us, empty, like a mirror into a world where we didn’t have to pretend this way for each other.

Ms. DeVeau’s hand found the top of mine. “Little Olivia,” she started. Her breath was raw as her skin and smelled of coffee. “If there is anything I want to say, it’s that I believe in you.”

Aidy’s fear dampened my urge to laugh at the way Ms. DeVeau tried to pick me up by the nape of my neck. “Thank you,” I said instead. “That means a lot coming from you.”

“Being around the Cline boy again won’t do you any good. No one blames him for what happened. Marley should never have had such easy access to her father’s gun. That was the real problem,” Ms. DeVeau said with a rehearsed flick of her hand, like she’d spoken that exact statement too many times to muster up any feeling behind it. “But Nick’s had such trouble acclimating since then. I don’t want that for you.” She stroked my hair. “You were always Marley’s little admirer.” As Aidy reached for more cucumber, Ms. DeVeau said, “And you, Aidy. You’re her sister. You should be watching out the way Marley would.”

If there was ever a time to see the resemblance between us Stanton girls, it was at that exact moment, as our brows scrunched to meet the bridges of our apparently similar noses. Aidy could do no better or worse than Marley, for she was not Marley. She was Aidy. My sister. And she did not belong in judgmental sentences falling from any lips other than my own.

“She does,” I warned.

“Well, she needs to do a better job. You turned my daughter’s memorial into your own little show.”

The local news segment showed Cadence’s art teacher talking about her new oil portrait of Marley, a few crowd shots from earlier in the night, and a short clip of Mayor Bayor’s introduction. Those who didn’t attend would never know how many truly interesting things occurred. And those who did attend kept the interesting parts hidden away, like they always did. It was no wonder we spent our childhood raiding our houses. Adults loved secrets. Kids loved learning them.

Aidy leaned forward to see Ms. DeVeau across the couch. “You’re the one who threw your chair,” she muttered. “Don’t you think that was kind of distracting too?”

I wanted to throw my arms around my sister. Squeeze her so tight, her newfound truth-telling got stuck in the top half of her body, forever spilling out of her mouth. But Ms. DeVeau clenched the flesh of my back to absorb the shock of the blow. I wiggled out of her hold and stood.