—
The funeral isset up on the back lawn under the scorching sun. We take a seat in the front row next to Daisy and her family, fanning ourselves with the programs. Next to the urn sits a photo of Naomi, too glossy and perfect. It looks nothing like her. The urn, a blue-and-white hand-painted thing, is something I might have seen on my nga-bu’s shelves, where my grandmother might have stored rice or tea.
I guess it’s better than the open coffin around my mother. The strange, powdery makeup they’d painted on her cheeks, the too-pink lipstick she’d never have chosen, the smell they’d tried to hide with tuberose perfume. My stomach turns with the memory.
“You okay?” Nate asks, reaching over to give my hand a squeeze.
I reach up to touch my cheek, and it feels clammy. Willing myself to relax, I concentrate on a slow, deliberate breath—Am I okay? I haven’t been okay for weeks—and give him a nod.
Sometime after the pastor says a prayer, Daisy takes themicrophone, and then Zalikah, and soon my cheeks are again wet with tears.
During Margaret’s speech, my mind casts back to the note I found in Naomi’s room.Naomi, I’m sorry about last night. Let me make it up to you. —M.
Was it from Matthew? And, if so, what had he needed to apologize for?
And Detective Simmons had said Naomi was in Manhattan the night before she died. Who was she with? Was she meeting someone? Running from someone? And when she came back to campus, how did she end up in the lake? Why had the police asked Matthew for an alibi? Why did they even interview him? It’s not like they were interviewing any of Naomi’s other professors, were they? What made them suspicious of him?
I scan over the familiar faces: her roommate Amy, her professors, fellow Sterling Club classmates. And then I see Liam, lingering in the background. His angry outburst still makes me think he could have done it. He could have killed my sister. And to think he’d have the nerve to show up here afterward. It makes me sick.
The mic crackles as a woman in her fifties clears her throat and starts to speak. She wears winged purple glasses, shoulder-length braids, and mismatched rings on every finger, and she introduces herself as Naomi’s thesis advisor, Fiona Williams, a professor in the English department. The name sounds familiar…Fiona Williams…
“Those of us who were fortunate enough to know Naomi mourn the loss of a brilliant young woman,” Fiona says, her voice strong. “Over the course of the year, we would meet weekly, so I got to know her well. Naomi’s thesis was about how women have been silenced throughout history for upsetting the status quo.” She pauses, hawk eyes scanning the crowd. With a sharp inhale, I realize the weight of her words. “As Naomi’s mentor and friend, I vow not to let her memory be forgotten. May all of us who loved her continue to support her mission and not permit another young woman to be silenced in her grave.”
A shiver passes through me. Was Naomisilenced? It sounds so cruel, so evil, when said like that. I glance at Nate, who looks equally disturbed. Murmurs trickle through the crowd as Fiona finishes, gives a pursed smile, and ventures back to her seat.
Next, the pastor calls me to the stand. A knot forms in my throat as sweat beads my brow, collects on my neck, my lower back. There are so many people here. So many faces.
When I arrive at the podium, I look down at the speech in my hands and swallow the sudden desire to run. The ink-stained paper is a crumpled, smeared mess. I clear my throat. “Naomi—” Oh god. I don’t think I can do this.
My eyes land on Nate in the crowd, and he gives a small supportive nod. I try again. “Naomi was my sister. We were ten years apart, but it only made us closer. Her laugh—it’s—I can’t stop hearing it everywhere—”
My eyes drift over the crowd, glancing over the onlookers before catching on a face: Matthew DuPont. His fiancée is next to him—long strawberry-blond hair, sun-kissed complexion, a little too much cleavage for a funeral—I’d met her before, but hadn’t given her a second thought.
Did this woman know what kind of man she was marrying? The things he did that ended his previous marriages?
I think again of how some people are so eager to have the perfect relationship, the perfect life, that they’re willing to overlook the obvious flaws, the red flags right in front of them.
I glance back at Matthew, and he gives me a polite smile.
When I return to my speech, the words blend together. My hands shake as their eyes watch me, slicing into me like the edge of a knife.
I set down the paper. Maybe someone here knows something. Maybe they can help me figure out what happened. I have to find a way to let them know I’m looking for answers.
“My sister’s death,” I say, forcing my voice to be strong and clear, “was not an accident.”
Shocked whispers. I find Matthew among the guests and keep my eyes on his. He sits very still, his smile now gone. “Someone did this to her. And I’m not going to stop until I find out who it was. If you think you might have any information about Naomi’s last weeks, please reach out.”
I duck my chin and rush away from the podium, tears stinging my eyes. Heads swivel as I pass, mouths agape.
“Maya.” I hear my name, but I can’t tell who’s said it. It’s a chorus of “Maya, Maya, Maya.”Stop!I want to scream.If you’re not going tohelp me, leave me alone!The world is a blur of colors and shapes through my tears, but I can feel their eyes. Dozens of eyes. All staring at me. Wondering what’s wrong with me.Poor Maya. So awful what happened. She needs help.I don’t care what anybody thinks right now.
My ears ring as I rush in the direction of the house.Please just leave me alone.
—
My hands trembleas I reach for my anxiety medication in my purse. Pouring a pill onto my palm, I knock it into my throat and swallow it dry.What was I thinking?The adrenaline has begun to fade, embarrassment settling in its place.
In the kitchen, I fill a glass of water in the sink and gulp it down before making my way upstairs. I round the landing to the familiar hallway, remembering when Naomi first moved into this house. First walked down this hall.
