Grandma puts down her wineglass and reaches across the table for Mom’s hand. “Kathleen, I just want you to know that I mean this sincerely—I’m deeply proud.”
* * *
We eat pie in near silence. Grandma’s friends try to liven things up again while she’s opening presents, but we’re all still stuck on “I had sex with Colin in my car.”
Everyone scurries out as soon as they can, and I help Grandma into a sleek black car that has shown up to whisk her away. It’s another mystery man, this one at least ten years younger than she is. His fancy car smells too strongly of cologne, but his smile is friendly as he nods at me.
Grandma pats my cheeks as she settles into the front seat.
“I told you I’d ruin your birthday,” I say.
“My dear, you made it the best birthday ever.”
I shake my head in amusement and close the door. She waves as they drive away.
I trudge back into the restaurant. It’s nearly empty, the waitstaff clumped together around the hostess stand. They abruptly stop talking as I walk by.
I head to the back room to grab Mom’s mason jars and the rest of the cake. I hear murmured voices as I approach, and I slow as I reach the door.
Dad stands near the end of the table with Ben, his arms crossed over his chest. Smoke from a recently extinguished candle billows up next to them. I stand back, out of view, absolutely shameless about eavesdropping.
“I know you don’t care about this, but I implore you to consider what’s best for Lucy,” Dad says.
“How do you mean?” Ben asks. He drank far less wine than the rest of us. His voice is much clearer than Dad’s.
“She’s told her story several times. It doesn’t need to be repeated.” Dad’s already frustrated.
“She’s never told her story.”
“Of course she has.”
“Not directly. It was always filtered through the police or you and her mom or her lawyer or the media. No one has ever heard directly from her.”
“But why do you think that was?”
“Because you were protecting her?”
“Yes!”
“And that’s what you’re doing now?” Ben asks. I wonder whether Dad hears the skepticism in his voice.
“Of course.”
“I’d love to interview you, if you’d like to go into more detail,” Ben says.
“I’m not doing an interview,” Dad snaps. He starts to turn, and I quickly backtrack a few steps. I wait until he’s coming out of the room to start down the hallway again. He frowns as he passes me.
Ben is typing on his phone as I grab a box and head to the table for the mason jars.
He looks up, and then walks over to grab a few of the jars. Our eyes meet as he puts them in the box.
My story is still being filtered through him. I wonder whether he realizes that. Savvy’s story is being filtered through him. Through everyone he’s interviewed who has sanded off the edges of the real girl to present the world with a perfect victim.
“I’ll see you Monday,” he says softly. He heads to the door but pauses, looking over his shoulder at me. “You know I’m only interested in finding the truth, right? For Savannah.”
“I know.”
He nods and starts to walk away.
“Wait, Ben.”
He looks back at me.
“That’s what I want too,” I say. “The truth.”
In my head, the voice snorts.
“To figure out what happened to her,” I amend. “I’m going to help you figure it out, no matter what those dumbasses say.” I gesture vaguely to the table, where the dumbasses （my family） were seated a few minutes ago.
Ben smiles. “I’m glad to hear it. We’ll figure out the truth together, Lucy.”
I swallow nervously as he waves, then turns and walks away. I listen to his footsteps fade.
The truth.
“The truth doesn’t matter.” The voice—Savvy’s voice—is so clear now, clearer than it’s been in years.
It’s always been Savvy talking to me. Since the first few days after she died, when her screams were so loud I thought my head was going to explode, to later, when she quieted to a murderous constant companion.
To now, when she’s apparently had enough of me ignoring her.
“Let’s kill—”
I close my eyes, willing the memory away, but it won’t go. She’s been there for days now, on the edge of every thought I have, yelling at me to notice her.
The memory forms, bright and clear, like it sharpened over the years instead of fading.