She had controlled the truth long enough.
I would tell them.
Not her.
The following morning, I called my mother.
“Are you sitting down?”
She immediately became nervous.
“I hate when you start calls like that.”
“Please.”
“What happened?”
“Sit.”
A chair moved.
“Okay.”
I closed my eyes.
“Lily is alive.”
Silence.
Then my mother whispered:
“Claire.”
“I saw her.”
“Sweetheart, grief—”
“She knew about the moon.”
Another silence.
“She knew about the bowl.”
“She knew things nobody else knows.”
I heard my father take the phone.
His voice shook.
“What do you need from us?”
That nearly destroyed me.
Not:
Are you sure?
Not:
Where is she?
Not even:
How?
What do you need?
“I don’t know.”
“Then we’ll start there.”
Two days later, I took them to Lily’s apartment.
My mother stopped in the doorway.
Lily stood by the window.
