I didn’t bother texting him back. If he wanted to give out to me, he could save it for later. I wasn’t in the mood right now. At the bottom of the stairs, I filled Millie’s arms with all the things I was taking from the house, and tried to ignore all the things I was leaving behind. After this, there would be no looking back. Nothing left undone or unsaid. Today was about closure. Today was about moving on.

‘You look nice,’ she said. ‘I like that dress.’

I shrugged. ‘My mom always liked me in dresses, even though they make me look about five years old.’

‘Ah, Soph, don’t be dramatic. You look at least seven and a half in that.’

I stuck my tongue out at her as I slipped into the sitting room, and then found myself standing in front of the urn on the mantelpiece. Stalling.

I stared at it for a minute – this thing that now held the essence of my mother. The urn was dark purple, her favourite colour – I must have told them that. I couldn’t remember now. There was a thin gold band around the top, and a banner of floral filigree bordering it. It was beautiful, I supposed, but it made me a little sick inside.

When we got back into the car it was almost one p.m. Millie was adjusting her mirror, frowning. ‘You can’t be serious.’

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘Black SUV at the end of the street,’ she sighed. ‘Can’t tell which Falcone it is.’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ I said, refusing to turn around. I was singularly focused. Today was about my mother. Today was about goodbye. ‘Let’s just go. I don’t want to be late.’

*

Beyond the last rows of boxy houses and the dilapidated football field, the town sloped upwards, turning the street narrow as it climbed until the land flattened out unexpectedly and gave rise to a generous spread of cedar trees. It was a peaceful wedge of nature, where everything was crisp and green and pretty, and if you weaved your way through the trees to where the hill sloped down again, you could see the river winding towards the town below.

It was my mother’s favourite place. We used to go on walks there together when I was younger. Back when I got bored easily and complained about being too cold or too tired to climb the hill. Back when I didn’t know how good I had it.

At the top of the hill, Millie parked along a dirt border beneath a cluster of trees. We got out, my hands clutched tight around the urn. The scent of pine wrapped around me, the light breeze pushing wisps of hair across my face. It smelt like the past.

Ursula, Gracewell’s Diner’s former assistant manager, bustled towards me, her usual bright clothes replaced by a long black dress and matching coat. She was wrapped up to her nose in a grey scarf, revealing only a hint of her inky black eyes and cropped white hair.

She embraced me awkwardly, the urn still held between us. She cupped my face in her hands, as if she was trying to peer into my soul. ‘How have you been? Where have you been?’ She took a step back, affording me a cursory once-over. ‘I’ve been worried about you. It’s been too long since I’ve seen you.’

I brushed off her questions, like I had been rehearsing. I told her I was staying with friends outside the city, trying to come to terms with everything. She didn’t push it, but curiosity burnt in those dark eyes. ‘Thanks for coming,’ I offered, before she could burrow any deeper into my barefaced lie. I felt glad of her familiarity, even if it did come peppered with suspicion. ‘It means a lot to me.’

She squeezed my arm, her brows creasing. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Sophie.’

People who make time for the sadness in your life, not just the joy, are worth keeping around. It saddened me to think of my new life now, and how there was no place for Ursula in it.

Almost everyone I had invited was here: Mrs Bailey, who was wearing a netted black veil and a huge fur coat that seemed to say I’m the chief mourner here and I am also very rich. Millie’s parents had come, and her brother Alex too. He embraced me in an awkward hug, and I tried to remember the time when that would have been the best thing to ever happen to me.

There were some old acquaintances from the diner, too, and my mother’s stalwart clients from the city. A few of her closest friends had made it, the ones who had stuck around after my father went to prison.

I recognized most of the faces, and could guess at the ones that didn’t immediately register. That’s how small her circle had become after my father went to jail. That’s how easy it was to corral everyone she cared about into the same space. They parted in a sea of drawn faces, each one offering renewed sympathies as I passed through them. Millie linked arms with me, and I leant against her, finding comfort in the faces of those who had known my mother as I did – as someone who was happy and bright and beautiful. This was how she would be remembered. These were the people she loved most in the world.

I tried not to think about my dad. The last time I had spoken to him I had smashed our house phone against the wall. Michael Gracewell was a lie – Vince Marino Jr was the truth, and he never had the guts to tell me. Above all the other heinous things he had done – the murders and the lies – that was the cherry on top. I could never forgive him for that. For taking away my identity before I had a chance to learn it for myself.

‘What a lovely idea this is, Persephone.’ Mrs Bailey was in front of me. She removed the netted veil from her face and smoothed it back over her hair. Her eyes were rimmed in black. ‘To give your mother this beautiful send-off. It’s what she would have wanted after such a tragic … well …’ She trailed off, and I silently dared her to mention my uncle. The fugitive. They all suspected his involvement, but they had no idea.