Page 188 of A Dead Girl's Guide to Living
“We will,” I assured her, biting the inside of my cheek.
“Do you think it will hurt?” Liv asked, her voice quiet. “Do you think I’ll… feel anything?”
Dove shook her head. “I don’t know, but I’d like to think not. I don’t think love ever lets the ending be punishment.”
Something seemed to unspool in me at those words, the tight coil of my muscles loosening, and even Liv looked more relaxed as she let her shoulders drop.
We turned down a tree-lined street, the branches curving above us to create an archway. The GPS told us to take a left, and Dove did as instructed. We passed a kid selling lemonade, a house with a mailbox painted like a slice of watermelon, and yards that were meticulously landscaped.
“Left up here,” Liv whispered, just as the GPS echoed her words.
We turned.
Dove allowed the Mustang to crawl down the street, and soon we came up to the red pin, the house appearing on my left. She pulled up to the curb, letting the engine idle as she looked back at Liv.
“Ready?” she asked.
Liv blinked at her home, eyes swimming with a million emotions at once, a surprised smile lighting up her face, and I followed her gaze.
It didn’t look like a home that belonged to grief, but then again, neither had my own but it was the first thought that struck me. It reminded me of a house you’d pass on a slow drive through suburban streets and think,How perfect. A neatly painted façade in soft beige, trimmed in crisp white, with shutters framing the windows. The lawn was clipped short and even, almost too precise to be considered real.
A row of bright flowers lined the front walkway, pink and yellow blooms bursting from tidy, mulch-filled beds, as if someone had made a valiant attempt to plant cheer right at the threshold.
I looked up at the porch where a white wicker chair with a plush cushion sat beside a pot bursting with lavender. Wind chimes hung from the eaves, catching the faintest breeze and producing the gentlest tinkling. It was the perfect picture of ordinary and normal, composed so well it almost dared someone to question its joy.
But I knew better.
I knew that, more often than not, tragedy didn’t announce itself. It didn’t need peeling paint or broken blinds. Pain could still nestle behind polished windows. Trauma could still sit at a kitchen table beneath a vase of fresh flowers. Loss could live in a home that looked as if it had never been touched by anything except sunshine.
Grief didn’t discriminate, and unimaginable heartbreak could linger just as easily in a pristine family home as in any broken-down place. Behind this perfect suburban front lived a woman who had lost her daughter—living with that absence, reminding me that tragedy didn’t always scream from the outside. Sometimes it sat quietly behind the prettiest facades, waiting to be faced.
Dove shut off the engine, the faint jingle of the keys pulling my attention from the house. My eyes met Dove’s for a beat before we both turned to Liv, who blinked once and stared back at us.
“Ready?” I asked on a breath, echoing Dove’s unanswered question.
Liv shrugged and looked back at the house.
“Ready to die a second time?” she asked with bemusement. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
By the time we reached the porch, my pulse was a ferocious drum in my ears. I looked down at the welcome mat, noting the faintly worn edges and the slightly dulled yellow font. My hand hovered for only a second before I knocked, unwilling to drag the moment out. My knuckles brushed the wood—three sharp raps echoing into the stillness.
Dove shot me a small smile. Liv hovered behind us, fidgeting, shifting her weight from foot to foot, her eyes fixed on the door—wide, terrified, unblinking
The handle turned, and my stomach dipped.
I wasn’t sure what I had expected when I imagined Liv’s mother, but the woman who opened the door was not it. Maybe because Liv’s hair was pink, I’d expected her mother to have the same outrageously colored hair and sequins for skin. Instead, we were greeted by a woman with soft brown hair pulled into a loose braid that hung over her shoulder. Silver-gray streaks threaded through, long since left unhidden, the two tones a quiet reminder that no one escapes time.
I took in her oversized gray T-shirt, faint stains marking the fabric, and her black leggings, worn thin in places, holes beginning to show. Her hands—resting on the edge of the door—were dusted with dried clay.
Liv’s breath hitched slightly behind us. “She’s doing pottery again.”
Her mother’s light blue eyes shifted between Dove and me, cautious but kind, and she offered the smallest of smiles. “Hello. Can I help you?”
“Are—are you Rachel Browne?” I asked, my voice unsteady.
Rachel blinked once and tilted her head slightly. “Yes… that’s me.” Her frown deepened as her gaze flicked between Dove and me again, suspicion dancing in her eyes, and I wondered if she had been hounded by the same people who had gone after Jedd for the documentary.
I knew there was no drawing this out. The last thing I wanted was to put her further on guard.
