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could just get closer to heaven.
    When she opened the door, she saw her grandmother crying, her aunt sitting beside her holding her hands. It made her stomach hurt to see Grandma cry, and it made her afraid when she saw her grandpop’s face. It was so tight and his eyes weretoo dark and mean. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet but hard, as if he were trying to break the words instead of say them. It made Olivia cringe back to make herself small.
    “It doesn’t matter why he did it. He’s crazy, crazy with jealousy and drugs. What matters is he killed her, he took her away from us. He’ll pay for it, every day of his miserable life, he’ll pay. It’ll never be enough.”
    “We should’ve made her come home.” Tears continued to slide down Grandma’s cheeks. “When she told us she and Sam were having trouble, we should have told her to bring Livvy and come home for a while. To get her bearings.”
    “We didn’t know he’d gotten violent, didn’t know he’d hurt her.” Grandpa’s fists balled at his sides. “If I’d known, I’d have come down here and dealt with the son of a bitch myself.”
    “We can’t go back, Dad.” Jamie spoke wearily, for some of that responsibility was hers. She had known and said nothing. Julie had asked her to say nothing. “If we could, I know I’d be able to see a hundred different things I could do to change it, to stop it. But I can’t, and we have to face the now. The press—”
    “Fuck the press.”
    From her peep through the doorway, Olivia widened her eyes. Grandpop never said the bad word. She could only goggle as her aunt nodded calmly.
    “Well, Dad, before much longer they might look to fuck us. That’s the way of it. They’ll canonize Julie, or make her a whore. Or they’ll do both. We have to, for Livvy’s sake, take as much control as we can. There’ll be speculation and stories about her marriage and relationship with Sam—speculation about other men. Particularly Lucas Manning.”
    “Julie was not a cheat.” Grandma’s voice rose, snapped.
    “I know that, Mom. But that’s the kind of game that’s played.”
    “She’s dead,” Grandpop said flatly. “Julie’s dead. How much worse can it get?”
    Slowly, Olivia backed up from the door. She knew what dead meant. Flowers got dead when they were all brown andstiff and you had to throw them away. Tiffy’s old dog, Casey, had died and they’d dug a hole in the yard and put him inside, covered him up with dirt and grass.
    Dead meant you couldn’t come back.
    She kept moving away from the door while the breath got hot and thick in her chest, while flashes of blood and broken glass, of monsters and snapping scissors raced through her head.
    Then that breath burst out, burning over her heart as she started to run. And she started to scream.
    “Mama’s not dead. Mama’s not dead and in a hole in the yard. She’s coming back. She’s coming back soon.”
    She kept running, away from the shouts of her name, down the steps, down the hall. At the front door, she fought with the knob while tears flooded her cheeks. She had to get outside. She had to find a tree, a sky-brushing tree, so she could climb up and call Mama home.
    She fought it open and raced out. There were crowds of people, and she didn’t know where to go. Everyone was shouting, at once, like a big wave of sound crashing over her head, hurting her ears. She pressed her hands to them, crying, calling for her mother.
    A dozen cameras greedily captured the shot. Ate the moment and her grief and her fear.
    Someone shouted for them to leave her alone, she’s just a baby. But the reporters surged forward, caught in the frenzy. Sun shot off lenses, blinded her. She saw shadows and shapes, a blur of strange faces. Voices boomed out questions, commands.
    Look this way, Olivia! Over here.
    Did your father try to hurt you?
    Did you hear them fighting?
    Look at me, Olivia. Look at the camera.
    She froze like a fawn in the crosshairs, eyes dazed