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asking me if I’m okay! I’m fine.” My agitation is clear and Ronnie backs off.
    “I gotta go,” he tells the person on the other end of the line.
    Megan joins us. “I’m ready.”
    Ronnie takes a long look at me— too long .
    “What?” I scold.
    “Let’s get some lunch,” Ronnie suggests. “I’m starving.”
    I nod and pray that I can eat.
     
    ***
    It’s late when Ronnie and Megan drop me off. I am disappointed that the day didn’t turn out the way I had hoped. Those texts shut down any chance I had for having a good time. Snitch, slut —the words swim in and out of my thoughts. They’re harsh words. Telling me to fuck off would be less of an insult and carry less of an eerie sting.
    Ronnie’s door opens.
    “What are you doing?” I clip.
    “I’m going to walk you to the door.”
    “You don’t have to do that.”
    “I want to.”
    “No, you feel pity for me.”
    “What?” He’s confused, but I set him straight.
    “Poor girl who’s seeing things and lost her mother.”
    “What the fuck are you talking about?” Ronnie’s voices climbs. “I don’t think that!”
    “Yes you do!”
    “What are you going oobatz for?! I’m trying to be nice!”
    “Fuck you, Ronnie! I know you had to come today to watch me, not Megan!”
    Megan’s sigh is so loud that I can hear it over our arguing.
    “Can I come in and get a drink?” she requests, keeping her voice neutral.
    “Of course,” I grind out, flinging the Camaro door open.
    My anger starts to fade, and I am not really sure what I was mad about in the first place. The three of us get out of the car and go up the steps to my front door. I unlock it, pushing it open with rough movements. I’m pissed, not at Ronnie, but with the whole day and the fucking loser who gets off sending me cryptic and offensive texts.
    My routine of turning on all the lights starts in the hallway and I work my way to the kitchen. I smell coffee like someone brewed it recently. Dad’s car isn’t in the driveway. He must have come home, made coffee, and gone out again. Fleetingly, I think about the fact my father never drinks coffee after eleven a.m. or he is up all night long.
    I flip on the kitchen light and it blinks. It takes me a second to realize someone is at the table. I’m startled. I take a step into the room, covering my nose from the earthy rotting smell that mixes with the aroma of coffee. Then hesitantly I creep closer, closing the distance between me and the table. Etched in large letters marring the wood are the words “I know how much you miss your mother.”
    A scream from the deepest part of me comes up and out of my mouth in a deafening screech—another one comes, then another. The screams keep coming; I can’t stop them. I fall to the floor, feeling the cool tiles through my jeans.
    Ronnie is over me. His lips are moving but I can’t hear him over the ringing in my ears. He’s mad. He is trying to scoop me up off the floor but I’m fighting him like a three-year-old throwing a tantrum. Hitting, clawing, punching. My screams turn into the word “no.” I yell it until I am hoarse. I want to run but my legs won’t work the way I want them to.
    I’m not sure when or how I made it to the couch in the living room or how much time has passed. Everything whirls around me in snapshots. I can’t feel my fingers. I want to move or get up but my body isn’t responding.
    The house is a buzz of hushed voices as Antonio, Vito, and Mr. Delisi arrive. The image replays: propped up with a cup of coffee clutched in the fleshless fingers, wearing the pearls we buried my mother with—a corpse. Shriveled skin and empty eye sockets glare back at me in my mind’s eye.
    Antonio: “How the fuck can this happen?”
    Mr. Delisi: “I don’t know, but everything stops until we figure out who did this!”
    Antonio: “I’ve got to get her out of here!”
    Mr. Delisi: “Agreed.”
    Vito: “I’ll take her.”
    Antonio: “You got a place?”
    Vito: “Yup.