Emily's funeral was exactly one week after her death.

  I stayed in bed for five of those seven terrible days, until eventually I couldn't stay there any longer—for the sake of my sanity.

  Even fearing for my sanity was an improvement. A day ago, I might've welcomed the breakdown—anything to stop the ache. That terrible, empty hurt.

  I wanted to rip my heart out to stop it from hurting.

  I wanted my mind to shut down, to stop thinking about her—picturing her—hearing her voice as it screamed my name in those st, desperate moments before she was gone.

  I didn't tell anybody about the dream. I doubted anyone would've believed me.

  The only person in the world that I trusted enough to share something like that with was gone, anyway.

  Maybe I should have said something. When the police told my parents that they believed my sister had fallen asleep behind the wheel—maybe I should've corrected them.

  But would that have made anything better?

  Would it bring her back?

  Would the truth help anybody right now?

  I wished to God I hadn't seen her final moments. The terror on her face. Her desperate panic as she struggled against…something.

  Given the choice, maybe I'd have liked to believe that she had slept through it.

  A tragic accident on a winding country road. A sad statistic. It could happen to anyone—there but for the grace of God, etc. That was something a person could wrap their mind around.

  I could let my parents have that.

  I don't remember much of the funeral. It was a closed casket, of course. It always is when the body's too badly damaged.

  I doubted that she looked like my sister anymore.

  I shuddered at the thought as I walked down the aisle, heading for the front pew with my family. I tried to ignore the muttering, the looks of pity and curiosity from the congregation.

  I heard snippets of whispered conversation as I passed, but they didn't matter. They were just ghosts.

  Or maybe I was the ghost.

  "…looks just like her…"

  "…must be so hard for her parents to see her every day…"

  "...imagine how she must feel, losing her twin…"

  "...closest a person can get to attending their own funeral…"

  The minister spoke for what felt like hours. He didn't even know her.

  Emily never went to church.

  I didn't pay attention. I couldn't—not to a stranger talking about my sister's life like it was a sermon. When he finally stopped speaking, and they lowered the red velvet curtain to conceal her coffin, I heard someone whisper behind me that it had been a beautiful service.

  Whatever that means.

  Before heading to the cemetery, my mother, father, and I stood by the doors of the church to thank those who had come to mourn. A blur of pitying eyes. Trite words

  "Sorry for your loss."

  Sure. Thanks. Can I go now?

  "Hey, Lauren."

  My eyes snapped up at the voice of the st person left in the church—the st person I ever wanted to see: Seth Logan. My sister's ex. The reason she had spent more time crying in the st six months of her too-short life than I could ever remember her crying before.

  The fact that my fingers weren't already around his throat was a testament to my remarkable self-restraint.

  "I'm really sorry for your—"

  "Piss off," I muttered, gring at him. "She wouldn't want you here."

  "I just wanted to pay my respects," he said, gncing toward my parents.

  "Your respects." I sniffed, nodding. "You should brush up on your Voltaire, Seth."

  I stepped closer, lowering my voice.

  "We owe respect to the living; to the dead, we owe only truth."

  He recoiled, blinking at me like I'd spped him. My anger fred.

  "I know, I know—truth is kind of an elusive concept to you, isn't it? I don't have the time or the crayons to expin it to you right now, so please, with no due respect: fuck off.

  Then when you get to fuck off, go ahead and fuck off some more.

  Continue on past the next fuck off, and just keep fucking off until you fuck yourself off the nearest fucking bridge."

  "Lauren," my dad hissed, and I looked round to see Seth's parents watching our exchange. His dad was the local doctor, and his mum taught at our primary school. I supposed my dad thought I should care.

  "I'm sorry," Seth murmured, wiping at an invisible tear. "I did love her, you know."

  "If you don't walk away right now, the next funeral you attend will be your own." I growled.

  "Seth," his dad said, in a soft, warning tone. "Let's go."

  "I'm so sorry," my dad said, shaking the doctor's hand. "She's…it's been…"

  "Don't apologise for me," I said, shortly, still gring at Seth. "He knows I meant it."

  My dad shot me a furious look and ushered my mum and Seth's parents toward the door. I turned to follow, but Seth caught my arm and yanked me back, gncing over his shoulder to check no one was watching.

  "Let go of me." I tried to pull away but his grip only tightened, and he leaned into me. "That's going to bruise," I hissed.

  "You always did have a mouth on you, Lauren," he snarled into my ear. "Now, me? I always preferred your sister's mouth."

  I swung my fist so hard into his face that I was surprised the bones in my hand didn't shatter on impact.

  He released his hold on my arm and stumbled back against the wall, clutching what would soon be a bck eye.

  "I told you," I snarled. "That's going to bruise."

  He opened his mouth to reply—just as our dads reappeared in the doorway.

  Apparently my punch had sounded as spectacur as it felt.

  "Lauren!" my dad shouted, staring at me with a mixture of rage and disbelief.

  Dr. Logan rushed to his son's side, gently inspecting his eye.

  "I am so sorry about this," My dad approached, looking mortified. "Is he okay?"

  "Is he okay?" I snapped, brushing my dad off and storming past him.

  I ignored the surprised excmations of the gathered mourners as I shoved through the crowd and strode towards the car park, fishing my car keys from my coat pocket as I went.

  "Lauren…Lauren, wait!" My father jogged to catch up with me but I kept walking. "Lauren, where are you going? You can't leave, we haven't even buried her yet."

  "Yes, you have." I snapped. "She may not be in the ground yet, but you've buried her."

  "What's that supposed to mean?" He demanded, furiously. I stopped and whipped around to face him.

  "It's like you've forgotten who she was! Or did you just not pay attention? When she fell in the front door crying, night after night, because of that boy?" I knew it wasn't his fault, but I was angry, and he was there. He seemed to calm down, which wasn't what I wanted. I wanted a fight. But he wasn't going to give me one. I wondered if Seth was up for a second round. He sniffed, and ran a hand through his hair.

  "So…so do you think I should go back in there and harass the doctor's teenage son for being a shitty boyfriend?" he asked, quietly. "Even the shitty boyfriends are allowed to grieve. I'm trying, Lauren, I really am." His voice cracked on the st word and he shook his head, his eyes swimming with tears. "Your mum's…she's falling apart in there. I am trying to keep this family together, and I don't think the best way of doing that is to go around assaulting anyone she ever argued with, sweetheart.

  I'm just trying to keep my head above water here."

  I nodded, my anger still bubbling below the surface.

  "Okay, Dad. You just…go back in there and keep treading water."

  I held up my car keys and shook them, pointedly.

  "I'm going to go and drown my sorrows. You can pick me up from the Southfield on the way home."

  "You're going to the pub instead of saying goodbye to your sister?" My dad asked, shaking his head. His disappointment was evident, and it stung, but I just didn't care.

  "Who says I can't do both at the same time?" I asked, shrugging, as I walked away from him.

  I knew that I looked like a brat, but it didn't matter.

  Better he be angry with me than worried about me.

  Of course I wasn't going to the pub.

  I just couldn't be there anymore.

  I had to find out what happened to Emily.

  There was only one pce to start.

  I had to go back to the scene of the crash.

  See if there was anything the police missed.

  I couldn't stay here. I couldn't watch them lower her into the ground.

  She wasn't there anymore, anyway.

  I was respecting her memory more by trying to figure out what had really happened to her.

  I repeated the words I had spat at Seth.

  "We owe respect to the living. To the dead, we owe only truth."

  If the truth was out there, I was going to find it.

  I owed her that much.