Page 71 of Melancholia

“Nell—Eleanor Collins,” I clarify.

“Let’s see…Yes, okay. You’re on Mr. Waters’ list to be contacted. He is unfortunately gone for the next three days. Can I have him call you when he gets back?”

“Uh, sure. Can you at least tell me what it’s about?”

“No, I’m so sorry. I don’t have that kind of information. But I’ll let him know you called. Can I help you with anything else?”

She hasn’t really helped me with anything. But I give her a polite no, and return her sentiments of having a good rest of my day, before tossing my phone on the nightstand. If it’s important, someone will call me. If it’s not, then maybe this is the universe telling me to just let it go.

Either way, I’d much rather watch The Golden Palace and hang out with Amir’s dogs than worry about it. “What do you think?” I ask Umbra, turning to stroke along her cheek as she all but snores on my pillow. The two of them have lifted my mood considerably from what it was. And have made this place much less of a desolate space. “Should we make some Hamburger Helper? Think your dad will just love for you guys to have some for dinner?”

Her tail thumps against the bed and I kiss her nose, only for her to paw at my face and give a soft, playful woof. My grin widens. “Yeah, I think so too. And then if you have the stress squirts from it, it’s something your dad will have to deal with. Not me.” Another kiss on her nose triggers the two of them to break into the zoomies, their claws clicking across my hardwood floor as they bounce around, using my bed as a springboard and sometimes me as a trampoline.

Not that I mind.

All I can think about is how much I wish they could stay, and how much I wish I had a four-legged friend like this.

Maybe if I ask really nicely, Hestia will let me get a dog.

Or at the very least, a fish.

26

There’s nowhere in the world I would less want to be than dressed in my funeral-best, standing in front of Kindred Pines, waiting for Ms. Elliot to arrive. Not only do I simply hate working funerals, but this one in particular is a source of absolute guilt and nausea for me.

“What will you say to her?” Andrew’s ghost is washed out beside me; some parts of his face are blurred as I’ve forgotten what he looks like. To anyone else, it would seem weird. Like a strange filter used to block out the faces of kids online but not ruin the rest of the photo. Or, perhaps, like someone has taken an eraser to his face to scrub out some of the details.

I don’t look at him. I don’t need to.

“I’m sorry.” I don’t know if I’m replying to him, or apologizing for all this. It works either way, just as much as it doesn’t. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“For her loss, or for your part in it?”

“I didn’t do anything to you, Andrew. And from what I’ve heard from more than one person, you aren’t exactly going to be missed by anyone but your mother. And she might just be better off without you.” I give him a sidelong glance, my lips curved downward in a slight frown. “But I’m sorry you were murdered.”

“No, you aren’t.” He turns to look at me, his face worse than the last time I looked. Now it looks like water has fallen on him, washing away his features and leaving a smooth canvas where the left side of his face should be. His hair lightens and darkens as I watch because my brain clearly can’t quite remember which color of muddy brown it was. “You aren’t sorry, because if I hadn’t been killed, you wouldn’t be in love with⁠—”

“Don’t say that.”

I sigh when a car pulls into the parking lot, knowing it’s my time to shine. “Don’t say that. I wouldn’t wish death on someone just so I could end up as the obsession of a murderer.”

“A serial killer. Who will kill again, remember? He told you so. Will you take his word that it’ll never be you?”

The car pulls into the priority spot beside the front door, and Andrew’s mother gets out, looking old and worn. My heart twists for her, remembering that Cecil said she had Andrew young. If he died in his early twenties, then that makes her maybe mid-forties.

But she looks so much older. She walks tenderly, like every joint in her body is sore, and I want to ask Andrew if he did this to her by treating her so badly for years. Rationally, I know he has no idea. This isn’t the real Andrew Elliot, after all. So he only knows what I do, just like all the others.

My hands are clasped politely in front of me, but when Ms. Elliot wobbles on the stairs, I dart forward to help her up. “Good morning, Ms. Elliot,” I murmur as I steady her and help her the rest of the way. She feels so frail, and my heart sinks for her. Suddenly, I need to know if she’s been like this for longer than the past few weeks.

I need to know how much of this is mine to bear.

“I’m so sorry for your loss. Please let me help you in any way I can.”

She looks me over as we walk inside, her lips twitching when she glances down at my skirt, leggings, and black boots. “Do you really think this is appropriate for a funeral?” she asks, instantly dousing some of my sympathy for her.

“Uh, excuse me?” I ask, confused.

Ms. Elliot gestures to the bone around my throat. “That. It’s morbid. And it’s from the devil.”