My stupid theory that my mother murdered my father collapsed like a Jenga tower.

"W-what?" I stuttered. "Beverly made dinner that night? Are you absolutely positive?"

My mom nodded, pale-faced, gripping the side of the kitchen table. "She made mushroom soup for us all."

"B-but why? Why would she possibly... What would she have against Victor? Where is she?"

"Well, Bev and Tom went for their usual evening walk. I... Listen, hon, what is this all about?"

"Mom, hear me out. I'm gonna go check Beverly's room real quick, okay? Please pretend that everything's fine and... just... just keep making the cookies, all right? If Beverly and Tom come back, try to chat them up in the kitchen, will you? Don't let them come in there."

"But... Rhi?"

"Mom? Will you please trust me? Just this once?"

She nodded wordlessly as I dashed up the stairs.

The air in Beverly's room was sharp, with a hint of expensive perfume and something else I couldn't quite place—something almost... clinical. The surfaces were clear, almost sterile, but there was a sense of hidden depth, like a carefully constructed facade. A prickle of unease ran down my spine. My God, am I really doing this? This felt even more like an intrusion, delving into the life of someone who was essentially a stranger, despite being my sister-in-law. I had to be quick, because she and Tom could come back any minute now.

I started with the dresser. The drawers slid open smoothly, revealing folded clothes in rich fabrics. Moving to the nightstand, I found a few carefully chosen books—art monographs, interior design volumes, and surprisingly, a field guide to local flora. My fingers traced the cover of the plant book, which featured some mushrooms, too. An odd choice for Beverly. Next to the field guide, there was a copy of Tolkien's The Return of the King.

Didn't Beverly tell me, a few days ago when we went shopping together, that she had no idea who Tolkien was? Why would she lie about that?

There was nothing under her bed, so there was only her closet left to check. It was spacious and organized. Beverly's wardrobe was sophisticated and dark. As I ran my hands over the hangers, a small, locked diary caught my eye, tucked away in a corner behind some scarves. My breath hitched. A diary? This felt like it could hold answers. Beverly was Tom's wife. What right did I have to pry into her secrets? But the image of Victor's face in the coffin, the unsettling feeling that wouldn't leave me, pushed me forward.

I tried the diary. The lock was small and delicate. I scanned the room, my gaze landing on a small, ornate key ring on the dresser. I picked it up. There were several keys, each different. My fingers trembled as I tried them one by one. The third key slides in smoothly, and the lock clicked open. The thing felt heavy in my hands. Its pages were filled in... my best friend, Cindy's, handwriting.

My toes clenched in my sneakers. I knew it was hers—I used to make fun of the silly way she wrote her es, the exaggerated dip, as if the letter were trying to touch its toes. What was Cindy's diary doing in Tom and Beverly's room?

I stuck my head back into the wardrobe. There were three tubs with CINDY written on the sides in Sharpie. I took a breath, the loamy smell filling my nostrils. I popped the lid of the box closest to me. A cardboard shirt box rested on the surface of the contents. I lifted the top off, delicately pushing the tissue paper aside. It was a tiny baby outfit. I snapped the top back on and moved on to the next. I picked through art projects, graded research papers, programs from Cindy's honor society induction ceremonies, and wind ensemble concerts. Her flute case was there, too.

I pulled out a marble notebook labeled English 10H, Mr. Ward. English, tenth-grade honors. I thumbed through it, reading Cindy's haphazard script, a writing prompt copied at the top of each page: Five years from now, I see myself... Write a paragraph convincing a friend not to take drugs... Which character from a book would you like to meet and why? A copy of The Hobbit emerged next.

I turned my attention back to the diary, and a picture fell out of it. There was something scribbled in the bottom corner: The Edisto River, 2007. I sift through the other pictures—mostly scenery, portraits of nature. Except there was something oddly specific about them; the window looking out over a backyard, two girls piled onto an Adirondack chair. Our trip to the Edisto River when we were ten, with Cindy's family. The only trip we had ever taken as besties.

I decided to read excerpts from Cindy's diary, hoping to find a clue about what the heck was going on.

Senior Year, March 2015

If you're reading this, I'm dead. Just kidding. Although if someone were to find a notebook with two golden retriever puppies on the cover, pages of my middle school anxieties inside—What if I get my period while we're running the mile in gym and it leaks down my leg! What if auditions for The Music Man are open and I have to sing in front of everyone!—I might just kill myself.

I chuckled, wiping a stray tear from my cheek. Cindy was always the one for drama.

Senior Year, April 2015

Wahoo! Dear diary... I'm finally eighteen. It doesn't feel any different, really. There is one thing different, maybe, and it's this growing pressure to lose my virginity with someone. It would be like ripping off a Band-Aid, this virginity business. But with who? Rhi is all set, she already lost hers with Eli, ofc. Can't help but feel a bit jelly of her. I want that film romance the two of those lovebirds have. I only ever kissed Josh, a couple of times, because he wanted to, and I really thought that I'd enjoy it. I didn't. I also thought it would transform me, or at least how people saw me. Because it's sexy when good girls do bad things.

So I was right! She never really liked Josh. She was into Ethan Chang all along. The diary continued.

I'd like to kiss Ethan Chang. Anyone else might wonder what a guy like him has to be depressed about; he's got the perfect family, he's smart, and he's a shoo-in for whatever college he wants to go to, so he has a one-way ticket out of Gaffney. But I think I get it; I see a sort of restlessness in his eyes that I recognize in myself. I feel it when I see the same customers at Friendly Drugs every day over the summer. I feel it when my mom makes Frito casserole for dinner even though we just had it a couple days ago and I realize God, it's another Tuesday already. I feel it every night when I hear my dad laughing until he chokes at his seven p.m. sitcom reruns. He must have seen every episode five times by now, but he still cracks up like he's never heard the jokes. That's what this whole town reminds me of sometimes. People who are laughing at a joke that has long passed. I hope I get the opportunity to kiss Ethan soon.

And she did. It was at Ethan's birthday party: at his place, in late June. I remembered attending it so vividly—it was one of the few parties my parents allowed me to go to. The whole house was completely trashed; there were red Solo cups at our feet and a trash can overflowing with empty liquor bottles by the door, as if whoever was bringing it outside lost the will at the last moment. The contents of what looked like an entire bag of Doritos were crushed into the rug in the living room adjacent to the entryway. I actually thought I left the party early, with Eli. Cindy insisted she wanted to stay a while longer, giggly, on the verge of sloppy. A couple of beers were all it took. She said Ethan would take her home, so we left.

My fingers eagerly turned the pages to get to that part.

Senior Year, June 2015

Dear Diary,

I'm so happy I could scream! It finally happened. I lost my V-card after Ethan's party. And it was just the best feeling in the world. It didn't even hurt too much, as I was afraid it might. He was so kind, gentle, and sweet.

The night began so horribly. When Ethan rejected me, and laughed at my face, I wanted to die on the spot. It was so embarrassing. Like the ground opened up, and I just wanted to fall in, disappear, you know? He never even liked me, he said. What made me think he'd ever go for me, he asked. All I wished for was to get home. I looked for Rhi everywhere, but she was gone. Eli, too. They must have left together. After all, they were always together, in everything. They had each other. I was just a third wheel. As I was sitting on the rough pavement, the tears wouldn't stop. Everything was blurry, and I just wanted to vanish.

And then he was there. Mr. Carmichael. Victor. He insisted I call him Victor. His name feels different even writing it now. He was looking for Rhiannon, he said. When I told him she'd already left home with Eli, he didn't leave me alone there, in this awful place. He stayed. And his eyes... they lingered on me. When he saw me crying, he knelt down, put a hand on my arm. It remained there a little too long, even then I felt it. He asked what was wrong, his voice smooth, concerned. I mumbled something stupid about a boy. He told me I was pretty, that boys were fools. Victor was... kind. It was the first time anyone like him had ever really looked at me. He saw me. Not the boastful, cheerleader Cindy. He saw the real me. That night... he was the only one who did. So I gave him the real me.

My astonishment quickly morphed into anger, and that anger turned into a heat-seeking missile. My father and... Cindy?

Something in me deflated. She was eighteen, and at the time, Victor was... how old was he? Mom and him had Tom straight out of high school. So about thirty-six? Thirty-seven? I felt like I was about to hurl. The very thought of the two of them together, no matter how briefly it might have lasted, jettisoned the oxygen from my body.

He liked them young, you see, Aubrey had said.

For all I know she might not have been the only lover Victor had. He loved being the sun, and other women orbited around him, Eli's dad had said.

There it was. The pieces clicked into place, ugly and sickening. The one thing I never thought could break me had left its first fissure. Proof. Solid, damning proof that my father was a piece of shit until the very end. This wasn't just about his death anymore. This was about a lifetime of lies, of a darkness that touched even those I held closest.

A gasp ripped through the sudden silence.

I snapped my head up. Beverly stood in the doorway, her face a mask of horror. "What are you doing in our room?" she demanded.

And then it happened. The polished edges of her accent cracked. For a fleeting, chilling moment, the voice that cut through the air, sharp with fear and anger, was undeniably... Cindy's.