Then he ended the call.
“YOU CAN STILL CHANGE YOUR MIND.
“I won’t.”
He picked up the garment bag.
Then said something I hadn’t known.
“I sent them Mary’s graduation photo.”
I stared.
“What?”
“I asked them to put it on the big screen when I give the signal.”
“Do they know why?”
“They know she died.”
He looked at the bag.
“They don’t know everything else.”
By the time we arrived at Willowcrest High School—
I felt sick.
People noticed Ethan immediately.
Some students stared.
A few laughed.
One mother whispered something to another.
Both glanced toward us.
Ethan stood among his graduating class pretending none of it affected him.
But I knew him.
His shoulders were rigid.
Jaw tight.
He heard everything.
I wanted to take him home.
I wanted to rip every phone out of every hand.
But before leaving me, he had said:
