CASSIE HAD BURIED HER MOTHER IN THE GRAVEYARD OF THEIR small-town Indiana chapel among the weeds and crumbling headstones, neglected under the leaves of fall. Her stepfather was the only other mourner. He stood beside her, swaying, still drunk, as Cassie dug her nails into her palms and counted silently in her head to keep from weeping as the priest said the words, the coffin was lowered, and the only person Cassie had ever loved in the world disappeared into the hard, unforgiving soil.
Evie’s memorial service filled the great Raleigh chapel. There were embossed programs printed on heavy cream card stock, and the antique pews were packed with family and classmates. Evie’s parents wept together at the front of the procession, sunlight bursting through the stained-glass windows while the choir sang “Pie Jesu.” Evie’s father, younger brother, and uncles served as pallbearers, dressed up in black suits, their faces pale with grief. The wood of the coffin gleamed, smooth as silk, wound with wreaths of calla lilies and white roses, Evie’s favorite. She’d been embalmed in a pink silk party dress Cassie had helped her mother pick from the wardrobe, her cold lips painted red, a favorite scarf wound gently around her neck to hide the bruises her clumsy clothing-line noose had left behind.
Cassie still couldn’t believe she was gone. By the time she’d screamed, rushed forward to uselessly lift and heave at Evie’s dangling body, it was already too late. She’d been dead for an hour, the coroner report said. The porters had to cut her down with garden shears in the end, the only thing they could find sharp enough to sever the line.
They filed out of the chapel after the service, a sea of somber black. Cassie didn’t say a word, and nobody tried to speak to her. But she could feel the eyes on her, hear the hushed whispers.
“She’s the one who found her.”
“And after that thing with Sebastian too.”
“Why didn’t she say anything?”
“Cassie?”
She didn’t hear the voice for a moment, too wrapped up in her numb haze. Then she blinked awake and found Evie’s parents in front of her, their faces still crumpled with grief. “We’re heading back to London for the burial,” her father said, his voice hoarse. “But we wanted to thank you. If there’s anything we can do . . .”
Cassie shook her head. “No, you shouldn’t even have to offer,” she said. “Have a safe trip back.”
Evie’s mother gave her a trembling smile. “I hate to ask, but Evie’s things . . .”
“Don’t worry about them,” Cassie said immediately. “I’ll pack everything up and have the porters send it on. That is,” she paused, “If you want . . . ?”
They exchanged a look. “Yes,” Evie’s mother nodded, clutching a tissue. “Whatever you think . . . I mean, whatever mattered to her. And if you want to keep anything, some of her jewelry maybe, or clothing . . .”
Cassie inwardly recoiled from the idea. “Thank you, I’ll see,” she lied.
“I’m sorry,” Evie’s father said, ashen. “For everything we’ve put you through. I’m so, so sorry.”
“No,” Cassie objected, “You shouldn’t be—”
“Take care.” He spoke over her.
“And look after yourself.” Evie’s mother threw her arms around Cassie. Cassie stood helpless in the grief-stricken embrace. She should be the one apologizing, not them. She was the one who’d seen the signs. The warning fragments, the mood swings; it had been the same with her mother. She should have known. But she’d been so wrapped up in her own problems that she’d ignored it all.
This was her fault, not theirs.
At last Evie’s mother pulled away. Her husband wrapped an arm around her and steered her away, toward where Sir Edmund was waiting with a somber expression to take them to the hearse. The burial would be a private, family affair back in London. Cassie had been invited, but she’d politely declined. One day of this hell was enough.
Cassie looked blankly around the courtyard and caught sight of Olivia and Paige with the rest of their group clustered by the chapel entrance, wearing their best mourning suits, looking somehow too glamorous for such a grim affair. There was no sign of Hugo with them. Cassie had been watching for him out of the corner of her eye, but it seemed he’d stayed away from the service, as if he knew the quiet rage that danced in her bloodstream, the blame that waited on her lips.
Olivia caught her eye and made her way over. “Cassie.” She gave a weak smile, reaching to squeeze Cassie’s arm. “How are you holding up? It’s just awful.”
“I’m fine,” Cassie said quietly, looking away.
“We were just going back to Carlton. I thought I should offer everyone someplace to go have a drink, after the service. Will you come?”
“You’re having a party?” Cassie’s voice rose with disbelief.
Olivia’s eyes widened. “No,” she said quickly. “Not like that. A wake, I guess you could call it. A moment to share our memories. Everyone’s so shaken up.”
“Oh.” Cassie took a breath. “Thank you, but, no.”
“Please.” Olivia kept hold of her arm. Her blue eyes were full of urgency. “I know it’s not your thing, but . . . We all lost her. I think it would be good for you to just be with other people. You shouldn’t be alone.”
Cassie paused. She remembered after her mother’s service, how her stepfather had gone straight to the local bar to drink himself into oblivion, and she’d sat home, alone. The house had never been so empty.
She found herself nodding. “I’ll see you there.”
She could have walked over with the rest of the crowd, but Cassie didn’t want to stay another moment in her funeral dress. She’d bought it cheap from a store on the high street, a plain black shift she knew she’d never want to wear again. She stripped it off and left it in her trash, changing into a pair of jeans and a sweater. She pulled on her coat again and headed for the front door, but she couldn’t help stopping just inside the living room.
Her eyes went to the beam. She saw Evie there, all over again. Cassie felt her chest constrict. It had been wrong, all wrong, to find her like that, with everything else around her so ordinary. Evie’s notes, arranged neatly on the table, a half-drunk mug of tea, crumbs from the biscuit plate. She wondered for a hundredth time when the terrible decision had been made. Had Evie sipped her tea and planned it? Put down her mug, walked to the supply closet, paused to organize her notes in a neat pile before she looped the makeshift noose across the beam?
Cassie forcibly stopped the black thoughts crashing through her mind. She turned her gaze away from the scene of the crime and hurried out of the flat, her footsteps thundering on the staircase as she tried to leave the terrible image behind.
By the time she pushed the door to Olivia’s suite ajar, two dozen students were milling in the room, arranged on the couches and sipping wine with hushed voices. She barely recognized the room from the blank canvas it had been when she’d thought it her own; now there were framed abstract, colorful paintings on the walls, an exotic rug covering the hardwood floor, a tufted settee in pale blue velvet set back by the windows beside a vintage bar cart, fully stocked. The door to the bedroom was cracked open, a careless tangle of clothing strewn on the bed, high-heeled shoes scattered on the floor.
Paige came and swept Cassie into a hug. “If you need anything,” she said, joining the long chorus of people who’d promised just the same thing. Cassie nodded and let Paige steer her over to a seat. Miles and a few of the other clique were all there, Olivia’s professor Lewis too. There was a heavy silence in the air as they murmured small talk, nobody sure what to say.
“Did her parents get off okay?” Paige asked quietly.
Cassie shrugged. “As well as can be expected.”
Paige fell silent. Miles tugged at the collar on his dress shirt. “She’d hate this,” he said. “All of us sitting around, so fucking morbid.”
“Miles!” Paige hushed him, but he didn’t stop.
“I’m serious. Evie was fun, she was joyful, she was the life of the party. Remember how we almost missed the bus back from London, and couldn’t find a taxi, and she started singing right there in the middle of Regent’s Park?”
Paige gave a faint smile. “And you and Eddie joined in and Hugo took her waltzing around the bicycle racks.”
The group around Cassie relaxed, nostalgia drifting across their faces.
“I thought we were going to get arrested,” Miles added. “But then she asked the policeman to dance, and he couldn’t make up his mind whether to read her the riot act or accept!”
Paige laughed. The other people in the room drifted closer, crowding round to hear.
“She was in my library group,” someone else spoke up. “She always forgot her password, she never could keep it straight.”
“It was ‘Persephone,’” two classmates said at once, and then laughed. “I suppose she thought if everyone knew, someone could always remind her,” one added with a fond smile.
They began sharing stories in turn, anecdotes about Evie and all her misadventures. Somebody turned the music up, and soon the room was full of lively conversation, laughter, and warmth. Cassie sat in the middle of it all, feeling more of a stranger than ever. She hadn’t known the Evie they were all talking about, not really. They’d shared afternoons together, yes, curled up in the attic with their books and tea, a few morning runs, that night Evie invited her to the formal dinner at Merton. But listening to Paige and Miles, and the rest of them, talk about Evie’s favorite food, and taste for gin cocktails, and habit of discarding her high heels before the end of the night and demanding a piggyback ride from the nearest tall man, Cassie realized that she’d never really known Evie at all.
But these people had. They’d partied with her, shared drinks and dinner dates, and had stories enough to fill the room with laughter. And they’d turned their back on Evie when she needed them most. Nobody was sharing the story of avoiding her calls, dropping her like an unwanted nuisance the moment Hugo moved on.
Cassie felt a spark of resentment. It was like all the sympathy baskets and cards she’d received after her mother died. Meaningless words from people who hadn’t cared enough to notice while she was alive. A waste of paper, a waste of space. She shot to her feet, her chest too tight to breathe. She caught a concerned look from Paige, but nobody moved to go after her as she left the room. They were too caught up in their happy memories of Evie, all their pretty lies.
In the hallway, Cassie gasped for air. A whirlwind of guilt and sorrow and unexplained rage was storming in her chest, drowning everything out, demanding release. She stumbled down the corridor, blind to everything, feeling the dark clutches of the past threaten to take hold of her and never let go. No, she told herself. Not now, not here. She’d held those demons at bay too long to fall apart now.
Then she heard it, through the thunder of her heartbeat. The sound of a piano. Bach. One of her mother’s favorite symphonies, playing melancholily through an open doorway farther down the hall. The delicate notes washed over her, bittersweet, bringing with them the faded memories of a sun-drenched room, tulips in a vase on the mantel. Her mother’s sweater, soft against her skin.
Slowly, Cassie’s heartbeat slowed.
The darkness fell back, just enough for her to breathe again. The world steadied on its axis.
She took a few more steps down the hallway and pushed the door open.
Cassie stopped. Hugo was sitting in the dark room, his head bent away from her over the piano, fingers moving slowly over the keys. He missed a note, discordant, and hit it again, letting out a twisted laugh as he reached for the whiskey bottle balanced on top of the piano.
She pushed the door wider; the hinge squeaked. He turned. “Cassandra, Cassandra . . .” he drawled, sloppy. “Don’t you look lovely tonight?”
Cassie’s anger returned, sharp in her gut. He was hiding away back here, too cowardly to face them at the funeral. “You skipped the service,” she said, icy.
“Miss me?” Hugo slammed the piano lid closed and spun around on the stool.
“You should have paid your respects. Her parents were there.”
“You think they’d want to see me?” He met her gaze, lifting the bottle in a bitter toast. His face was pale and gaunt in the dim light, but she could see the shadows under his eyes. “Figured I’d cut the bullshit, give her an Irish wake.”
Cassie shook her head in disgust. “How can you just sit here like this?” Her fury grew. “Just laze around feeling sorry for yourself, when, when—”
“When it’s all my fault,” Hugo finished for her. “That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?” he demanded, rising. “That’s what they’re all saying. Trust me, there’s nothing you can throw at me I haven’t already told myself.” He closed the distance between them until she could see the tension trembling in his jaw, feel the energy radiating from his body. “You think I don’t lie awake at nights, going over it time and time again?” His voice rose. “You think I don’t ask myself what I could have done differently? If I’d only seen what was happening, if I’d known . . . I should have seen it. I should have known how far gone she was. I could have stopped her, I could have made it different.” His eyes were full of misery, guilt turning his dark irises black. Cassie recognized it better than anything: her own emotions, mirrored right back at her. The ache of regret, of wishing it could be any other way. The shame of knowing it was all her fault.
She exhaled in a rush. Her anger slipped away, leaving her empty again. Cassie took the bottle from Hugo’s hand and stepped around him, walking over to the dark windows, looking out across the gardens illuminated by the floodlit lamps. She took a long drink of the whiskey, feeling the burn snake down her throat, warming her whole body. “We failed her,” she whispered, staring out at the dark.
She felt a movement beside her, and then Hugo was there, one hand resting lightly on her shoulder. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I did,” she admitted softly, pressing her fingertips to the cold glass. “I saw what was happening to her. She was depressed, erratic.” She swallowed back a sob. “I knew the signs, I just didn’t want to believe it.”
“You’re wrong,” Hugo said firmly. “You couldn’t have known.”
“And you could?” Cassie turned. “I was her roommate, I was right there. I was the only one, not you or Olivia or anyone else.”
Hugo’s jaw clenched. “What about Olivia? What did she say to you?”
“Nothing.” Cassie shook her head. “That’s what I’m trying to say. You guys, you weren’t to know. She pretended everything was fine, but I was the only one who saw the truth about how bad she was. I should have told someone.” She felt a sob well in her throat. “I could have stopped it this time.”
She realized too late the mistake she’d let slip. She tried to turn away, but Hugo lifted his hand to her cheek, stopping her. “What do you mean, this time?” he asked quietly, his eyes searching hers.
Cassie looked away. She’d forgotten the happy family of her cover story, the lies she was tripping over.
“Cassie?” Hugo whispered softly. The sound slipped over her, and Cassie felt the fight ebb from her limbs.
“My mother slashed her wrists in the bathtub when I was fourteen years old,” she said quietly. “I didn’t see it coming,” she added, her voice cracking. “But this time . . . I know what to look for. I can’t believe I didn’t . . .”
Her words were swallowed up as Hugo pulled her against his body, enveloping her in a sudden embrace. Cassie flinched from the contact, but he held her tight, and after a moment, she surrendered, relaxing into his warmth. She could hear the beat of his heart through his chest, could smell whiskey on his breath. A curious sensation overwhelmed her: a sense of comfort, but edged with something more, an awareness of him and his body, unwelcome but impossible to ignore.
A moment of weakness, Cassie told herself, resting her forehead against his shoulder. That’s all it was. All she was allowed.
Hugo didn’t move or speak, and neither did she. They just stood there, holding each other in the silence and the dark, until there was a sound in the doorway.
They broke apart.
“There you are.” Olivia stared, taking them in. Then her face changed. “Jesus, Hugo, look at you.” She strode toward them, reaching to pull Hugo away. “I’m so sorry for my cousin,” she apologized. “He’s been like this all day. I told him to pull himself together, but . . .”
“It’s okay,” Cassie said quickly, but Olivia turned back to Hugo, her lips set in a thin line.
“You stink of booze,” she hissed, “and everyone’s asking for you. I can’t believe you’d do this, today of all days—”
“I’m sorry I’m missing your perfect little party.” Hugo scowled, the bitter look back on his face. “I guess I’m not so good at pretending everything’s fucking fine!”
“I can’t talk to you like this,” Olivia said grimly. “Go sober up and pull yourself together.” She turned back to Cassie, forcing a taut smile. “Come on.” She linked her arm through Cassie’s and steered her from the room. Cassie glanced back at Hugo, but he was slumped, raising the bottle to his lips, so she let Olivia lead her away, back out into the hallway. “I really am sorry,” Olivia apologized again. “He didn’t make a nuisance of himself, did he? Evie’s death really hit him hard. I mean, it shocked all of us, but he’s been a total mess since it happened. It was all we could do to get him out of bed.”
“I . . .” Cassie was still recovering from the strange embrace. “No, it’s fine.”
“Good. Will you come have a drink? I’m so glad you came.” Olivia squeezed her hand warmly, but Cassie couldn’t imagine returning to the wake, not now.
“I should be getting back,” she excused herself instead. “I have to pack up Evie’s things, for her parents . . .”
“Oh God.” Olivia’s blue eyes widened. “How awful. Do you need any help?”
“No, I’ll be okay. But, thank you,” she added. Olivia had been one of the only people to speak to her after the service. To acknowledge Cassie’s grief as part of all the group’s loss, instead of acting as if she was an alien, stranded alone with her feelings.
“Where are you staying now?” Olivia asked, accompanying Cassie to the staircase.
“What do you mean?” Cassie replied. “I’m still in the attic.”
Olivia stopped. “You mean, they’re keeping you there?” She gasped. “You have to go there every day, to where . . .” She trailed off, her words fading. Then she recovered. “It’s ridiculous. You’ll stay here, with me. I’ve plenty of room, and the couch pulls out—”
“It’s okay,” Cassie cut her off. “There’s no need, I’m fine where I am.”
Olivia shook her head. “I’ll speak to someone, they can’t possibly expect you to—”
“Don’t.” Cassie stopped her. “I appreciate the offer. But I really need to get going. This was a nice idea,” she added softly. “Evie would have liked it.”
She left Olivia and hurried down the stairs, hearing the echo of her own footsteps fill the hall. Outside, rain was spitting, cold against her face, but Cassie couldn’t face returning straight to the attic. Despite everything she’d sworn to Olivia, the room was too full of shadows and dark ghosts for her to take, not with her nerves still weak from the service.
Instead, Cassie looped back toward the chapel and peeked inside. It was empty now, the echoing space deserted, candles flickering in a golden line along the altar, flowers still lining the walls. She took a breath, then stepped inside, the heavy door swinging shut behind her. There, in the hush of the stained glass and candlelight, she felt some semblance of her self return. Churches always helped center her. It was strange, for she had no time for organized religion, the rituals and rules of services with their mandated prayers and response. But the buildings, great and powerful things, built as safe havens, shelter—those always felt like a relief, filled as they were with the hopeful prayers of believers who knew the security of a faith she could only envy.
Cassie wandered the aisles, drawing closer to the altar. The memorial display still adorned the platform: Evie’s photograph blown up on a poster board, surrounded with flowers and candles. She looked happy. She looked free.
A sound came from behind the altar, startling her. “Hello?” Cassie called out. A moment later a workman emerged, dressed in overalls. “Sorry,” she apologized. “I didn’t know anyone was here.”
“Just finishing up with the engraving,” he replied, lifting a box of tools. She must have looked puzzled, because he nodded in the direction that he’d come. “The in memorandum wall. They keep a tribute to all the students who died during their time here. I’m sorry for your loss,” he added, awkward, before tipping his cap and exiting.
Cassie pushed aside the heavy velvet drapes to reveal the space at the back of the vestibule, a bronze plate set in the wall, neat lettering engraved in a list.
William Randall Jefferson. 1840–1862. Scholar and friend.
Jeremiah Saracen Hargreaves. 1880–1901. Deeply missed.
And so it went on. Cassie reached out and traced the names, imagining what fates might have taken them so young. There was a cluster around 1918, and through the 1940s. War had touched even the ivory towers of Oxford. But aside from the tragic roll call during those dark years, the names were infrequent.
Juliet Annabeth Hopkins. 1963–1980. Beloved daughter RIP.
Rose Caitlin Smith. 1976–1995. In heaven we will be reunited.
Cassie stopped, her fingertips pressing against the shallow etching. Her mind raced as she read it again. Rose. Her mother’s roommate, Margaret’s best friend.
Feeling a sudden chill, Cassie backed away from the wall. Rose had died in 1995, the same year Margaret had fled Oxford across the ocean, changing her name and casting off all hints of her former life—except one final tribute to her former friend.
Cassandra Rose Blackwell.
She’d been searching for the reason her mother left. Now, Cassie knew in her bones that she’d found it. The key was right there in front of her, etched in brass on the chapel wall.
Rose’s death was the beginning of everything.