The Funeral

Murder Girls is created, written, and produced by Eternal Teenager. Content warning, this episode includes themes of death, grief, and mourning, references to murder and a suspicious death, depictions of funeral and burial rituals, discussion of institutional power, corruption, and social injustice. Brief mentions of drug use, non-graphic, emotional distress, and strong language. Listener discretion is advised.

Previously on Murder Girls.

Oh, hey, it's the business card, or a phone card. I'm calling it.

Now?

Yes, now.

Amy.

It's ringing!

Whoa, what the fuck?

Holy shit.

Is that?

A payphone.

And Dee Dee has a camera watching it.

And it fucking turns on when someone calls the number.

Where is that? Where is that phone? Okay, okay, let's think.

So many questions about this.

Start with the obvious one, location. Whoa, whoa, whoa.

Listen, you hear that?

Water.

Yeah, like a lot of it. That's Harbor Sound. I know that rhythm.

Okay, so we know the general area.

The docks is a big area. Gonna be hard to pin it down.

Dee Dee's indexing system. Every camera has an ID. The IDs are grouped by location. Okay, this camera is HD7, Harbor District. So yes, the docks. Why did Dylan have the number for this weird fucked up payphone in the Ninth Circle of Hell?

Who would he call there?

We could find out. If Dee Dee was recording the camera feed.

There should be archives.

Okay, HD7 archives, sorted by date. My eyes scan the dates. Years of timestamps. Years of Dee Dee watching, waiting, recording. And then I see it. A file dated Monday, the day Dylan was murdered. The timestamp. That's within the window of Dylan's murder. It's not far-fetched to assume, given everything that led us here, that it could be the killer.

Yeah, we have to watch it. Here we go.

Don't call on anyone until I get back.

That voice.

Holy fucking shit.

Thomas Holt.

Thomas Holt. The family's fixer. Standing at a mysterious payphone. At the docks. Only a few minutes after Dylan Holt collapsed and died. In the end, we can't use it. Not right now. Not like this.

What?

Anyone who believes us can't protect us. And anyone who can protect us won't believe us. If we move on this now, he knows.

And if he knows, he doesn't just scare us.

He removes us.

So we wait.

We wait. And we learn where that phone actually is.

Hello, Kenzie?

Amy, I'm sorry.

What?

What are you?

You.

You need to go to the Fern River Bridge, Amy. I don't know why. I don't want to know why.

Kenzie? You need to go.

Now. Before it. It looks like something else.

I can't.

I can't stay on the phone.

We.

We should go.

Oh my god.

There's. There's lights in the water.

There's a vehicle down there by the embankment. Yeah. It's not all the way under.

What do you mean?

Rear ends up. Front's gone under the current.

Shit. Look.

There's a body. Amy, you recognize the truck.

It's. It's Jake.

Murder Girls, episode 17, The Funeral.

There's a moment after something bad happens where the world decides how much attention it's going to give it. Most things don't make the cut. By the time we got there, everything important had already happened. The river didn't look different, it never does. There were lights, tape, people moving with purpose, but none of it felt like grief, it felt like cleanup. I already knew whose truck it was. My brain was just lagging behind, my body had figured it out first. I kept waiting for the moment when this would turn into a tragedy, when someone would slow down, lower their voice. It didn't. There weren't that many cops, no press fans, no solemn cluster of officials pretending this mattered more than it did. This wasn't that kind of crime scene. This was something that needed to be finished before it got inconvenient. I thought about Jake the last time I saw him. Something dumb, he said. Something that felt unfinished.

Amy. Amy.

I'd been sitting there waiting for someone to explain it to me. Mags knew better. Nobody was coming.

They're gonna move us along. Whatever we're going to notice, we need to do it now.

The guardrail doesn't look right.

It should definitely be bent more, and the truck's angle was wrong. Too neat.

No skid marks.

Or at least not the kind you'd expect.

There's Deputy Lucas.

Yeah, he's not watching the truck.

He wasn't watching the truck. He was watching time. Then he nodded, and that was enough. Not at the river, not at the bridge. He nodded at us.

That wasn't an accident.

No. By the time we hit the end of the bridge, the lights were already behind us. The river kept moving. Whatever had happened down there was already being folded into the night, into paperwork, into explanations that wouldn't need witnesses. I kept thinking someone would stop us, ask us what we saw, ask us what we knew. Nobody did.

Death doesn't announce itself, it doesn't knock, it doesn't give you a head start. If it did, people like Dee Dee would still be here, Jonathan too. You learn that early or you learn it the hard way. Warnings don't save you, love doesn't make you immune. This wasn't my first ending, I just didn't realize how many I'd already survived.

I called Kenzie. I told her about Jake, about the bridge. She just kept apologizing, like a lot.

For what?

For not saying more, for not knowing what it meant, for feeling it before it happened. And she went quiet, like really quiet.

She didn't do this.

I know, but knowing doesn't stop it.

This was the part where you stop reporting what happened and start living with it. What was he to her?

Jake? I mean, he and Kenzie were never a thing, not really. I think they were just, you know, familiar. Like someone you check on because something's always a little off even when you can't name it.

That sounds like family.

Yeah. They loved each other in their own way, just not in a way that could save him.

He got close to a lot of people.

Yeah.

Jake was always trying things, people, nights, whatever was around, sex, drugs, parties, Amber Holt. Like, if he kept moving, something would eventually click.

Did it?

No. None of it was ever going to fix what he was looking for.

Being 22 feels sharp lately.

Yep. Everything's an edge, even the good stuff. Especially the good stuff.

When we were kids, I thought adulthood would come with instructions, or a class, or a pamphlet at least.

Yeah. I'd settle for, like, a fucking warning label. Oh, hey, by the way, this part's going to hurt forever.

In bold, with bullet points.

I kind of just thought that one day it all just clicks into place. Being an adult, like, everything suddenly makes sense. You become mature or whatever.

Yeah, but then you learn that people just act that way while inside, they're all just like, oh my God, I don't know anything. Please help me.

Like, I get that adults telling us they're just as clueless as we are is not the best strategy, but some kind of warning would have been nice, man. Fuck sakes. I mean, I don't think I'm scared of not knowing things anymore. You know, I think I'm scared of knowing them and still messing it up.

Yeah, definitely feel that.

Like, I know when something's bad for me. I know when someone's lying. I know when I should walk away. And yet sometimes I just don't. And then everyone's like, well, you knew better, which is worse somehow, honestly.

Because it turns it into a character flaw.

Exactly. Yeah. So what about, what about you?

I think I spent a long time believing that if I just paid attention, really paid attention, I could stay ahead of things. Like if I noticed patterns fast enough, nothing bad would get close.

Did it work?

Oh boy, no. But it made me very good at pretending I was fine, which as it turns out is a skill people reward.

They do. They really do. I don't want to be numb. I don't want to wake up one day and realize I stopped feeling things just because it was easier.

You won't.

You don't know that.

I kind of do. Because you don't look away, even when it hurts. Most people do.

I can say the same about you.

Thank you. I'm learning. Uh, well, we have to be up early.

Right.

Funeral.

Shit. Tomorrow's gonna be weird.

Funeral weird or town weird? It's Avalon Falls. Why not both, love?

It's nice.

What is?

How safe this feels, just sitting here after everything. I didn't think I'd ever feel that again.

Yeah. Yeah.

This was the strange comfort of it. Not answers. Not closure. Just someone else in the room who understood the shape of the damage. The rituals come later. The stories come later. This was the part before that. Where nothing makes sense yet. And you can't even pretend that it does.

Mornings after something bad always feel borrowed, like you woke up in a version of the world that hasn't caught up yet. Nothing's fixed, but everything's quieter. Like the volume got turned down overnight.

Hi, sleepy, sleepy bear.

Huh?

Coffee, drink it.

Mags doesn't wake people up gently. She just makes things exist near you until you agree to participate. You're an enabler.

You say that like it's a flaw. Whoa, oh, okay, so just before you move-

What? What is it?

Nothing, nope, you're fine. Everything's fine. Yes, yeah.

That was weird, frankly, but mostly not reassuring, dude.

I didn't mean it like, I mean, it's just morning, right? And you know all morning Maggie, that's me. Just a little bit balmy in the morning, isn't it? Yep, yep, yep.

Hey, have you seen my phone charger? Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait, wait, you moved my stuff.

Correction, I organized it.

Why'd you go and alphabetize my chaos, man?

For efficiency.

Who's efficiency?

Mine, obviously. And also, I couldn't sleep. And also, it was three in the morning. And also, I thought if I fixed something small, the universe might calm down.

Mags.

Ugh, fine. I panicked.

There it is. Mags had stopped moving. Like if she stayed perfectly still, nothing else would escalate.

So big day, super big day.

Yep.

Uh, you okay?

I think so. Ask me again in 20 minutes.

Deal.

Hey, nice coffee, dude. Thank you.

Oh, no problem. Yeah, you know, I feel like I need to mention I lived in Seattle, but then I will hate myself forever and after always.

Good call, bud.

Oh. Oh?

I should, yeah, I should put clothes on.

Oh, yeah, that would, yes, for safety reasons and, you know, society. So we should probably leave soon.

Yeah. Let me finish your wonderful emerald city brew and we can go.

I need to lie down for a minute just to reset my nervous system.

Mood. Grief does weird things to time. So does comfort. Sometimes they feel exactly the same. We weren't pretending nothing had happened. We were just letting the morning exist. And for a minute, that felt like enough.

There's a point where you stop being people and start being careful. Not scared, not numb, just calibrated.

We don't react today.

No.

No matter what.

Especially then.

We don't confront anyone.

Not unless they force it.

And we don't split up.

Unless one of us says so.

This is... this is my first funeral. I missed my dad's.

Oh, shit, that's right.

Yeah, coma timing wasn't great.

Well, okay, so quick orientation.

Yes, please.

There's a lot of standing around pretending you're okay with silence. Cool.

I like silence. I won't be pretending.

Okay, great. That's great. Good energy. Next, people will say, I'm sorry in tones that don't match their faces.

Love that. Nothing new. Standard Avalon Falls energy.

Someone will cry very loudly and make everyone else feel like they're doing grief wrong.

Oh, good.

The twist is, they are going to be someone you would never guess. Like a non-relative, maybe even a non-French, just some rando over there wailing.

Avalon Falls, baby.

You don't have to say anything. You don't have to feel anything. If it gets weird, we step outside.

You say that like it won't get weird.

Oh, it absolutely will get weird. But you won't be there alone. This wasn't strategy. It was muscle memory. Borrowed from every bad situation we'd survived separately. Stitched together into something shared.

We don't react today.

Yeah.

If Thomas looks at us.

We don't blink first.

Okay.

That was the agreement. Be unremarkable. Be polite. Be forgettable. People think armor looks like confidence or anger or noise. Most of the time, it just looks like two women driving to a funeral.

Founders Chapel wasn't built for worship, it was built for permanence. The kind that outlasts God, outlasts grief. The kind that makes you understand, without anyone saying it, that some families own the ground you stand on. That they always have, that they always will. The chapel sits on the hill like a declaration, stone that doesn't weather, windows that don't break, a building that says, we were here first, we'll be here after. It's where the originals bury their own, marry their own, and decide what version of the town gets remembered. Today, it was deciding what Dylan Holt meant. The viewing had been going for an hour, a slow procession of faces, some familiar, some not, people who knew Dylan, people who knew of him, people who just knew this was the kind of death you showed up for. Whatever bad faith lived beneath the surface, whatever conspiracies were threading through the original families, whatever quiet systems were still mapping the town, it didn't stop anyone from coming. Someone had been murder ed, someone prominent, someone whose last name meant something. And in Avalon Falls, that still mattered. Shit, I thought it would be more dramatic.

Give it time, the drama intensifies the further in you go.

Right, right, right. Surface level respectability, inner circle chaos.

That's the Avalon Falls way.

I guess we didn't really know Dylan. He's basically our age. Uh, was basically our age, I mean.

He went to private schools and spent summers in Europe with his mom. We spent summers solving neighborhood crimes and hanging with your dog. So no, definitely different circles.

Dude, we wrote fan fiction, too. You know, when I was a teenager, like after I dropped out of school and had way more spare time, I was kind of a nightmare to him, actually. Used to confront him about stuff. My dad mostly saying his family killed him, that sort of thing or whatever. But also just about rich kid things. The way he'd just float through everything like consequences were optional.

Did he tell his dad or Victor or Thomas?

No, which was weird, honestly. He could have. Would have been easy to make my life hell.

But he didn't.

He just, let me yell at him, snipe back a little, then went back to whatever he was doing. In the last year or so, I started following him. Not like stalking, just noticing where he went, what he did.

Sleuth's hunch?

Yeah, definitely. I staked him out a lot, except he wasn't really doing anything or didn't seem to be. Just the dumb little real estate deals Richard and Victor threw him, getting old ladies to sign away their bungalows or whatever.

Just picked up on the resonance of it?

Yeah.

Man, the vibes. Guess I wasn't wrong. Just cursed at stakeouts. Then Monday, I followed him to loose ends of all fucking places.

And then everything changed?

By going back to the same.

Yeah.

Milling around outside were most of the heads of the original families, minus Victor Holt. Same energy, though. Standing in the way, never letting go. John and Susan Bergman, Franklin Handler, James Warrin, the eldest at 90 years old and still holding court. The latter pulled up behind them a long time ago. Look at them all standing there. The original's old, like a pack of fucking boomer hyenas.

What's scarier, the eyes or the teeth? Like, do they sharpen them?

Holy shit. I never noticed that before. Now I'm never going to stop. Thanks, Mags.

And the pins.

God, the pins. The originals and their fucking pins. I forgot how extra those are.

Special occasion cosplay.

Game of Thrones for timber barons.

What are the symbols again?

Virens have the falcon. Handlers get the anchor. Bergmans, bear, holter the stag. It's an American heraldry circle jerk.

With the fancy gothic initial.

Yeah, laurel leaves, gold everything. Peak, we've been here since the trees were baby trees.

You kind of want one.

I hate that you know that.

Your face does this thing when you see shiny objects.

They're not shiny. They're cursed.

Cursed and shiny.

Fine.

Oh, hey, there's Lula and Val.

Hola, girls. Hi.

Did you have to close the diner for this?

Luis is watching the diner. He'll come by later when he can get away.

They canceled school today.

Official day of mourning.

That makes sense. Of course they would do that.

We heard about Jake.

News travels fast.

In Avalon Falls, always.

No one really wants to talk about it, though.

It's like everyone knows, but no one's saying it.

Yeah, we noticed.

We're, uh, you two are gonna look into that too, right?

Not today.

Copy that.

Amber Holt's not here.

What?

Dylan's stepmother, and she's not at his funeral.

Are you sure?

We've been here since it started. Haven't seen her once. Dios mio. I know what people say about that marriage, but have some respect. Dylan was just a boy.

It's weird, right? All the cameras, all the drama, you'd think?

You'd think. Amber's absence wasn't a mystery. It was a decision, and it was looking less and less like one she made. Oh, good news, though.

Walter's heading home today.

Really? That's great.

Yeah, has to wear that cast for a bit, but he's cleared to go.

Well, speaking of home, that's where we're headed. Then to the diner to help Louise with the lunch rush. Take care of yourselves in there, girls.

Yeah, it's a lot.

See you soon. Amber's not here.

No, that's not grief. That's definitely something else.

The viewing area is exactly what you'd expect. Tasteful, expensive, designed to make death feel dignified instead of final. The casket sits at the front, flowers everywhere, and the Holt's standing nearby like an Edward Gory tableau, somehow better dressed, somehow more bloodless. Elizabeth and Richard together is never not going to be weird.

They've been divorced for like, what, 15 years at this point?

They're really amazing at standing together, but not together. No notes.

Richard's still wearing his wedding ring.

Yeah, clocked that. Grandpa Victor. Man, that dude just doesn't do any fucking expression other than seething rage at the world, huh? Like, you fucking won America. Why are you so angry, bro?

See how he's not really doing anything, just standing, but everyone's sort of orbiting him?

It's like he's a black hole and everyone else around him is just-

Doomed.

Evan's looking comfortable, huh?

Maybe too comfortable given the occasion.

He's standing there like he's family.

Yeah, not surprising, I guess.

And there he is, Thomas.

He looks like he's dissociating.

It's complicated, I get it. There was no empty chair for Amber, no expensive coat draped over a seat, no purse left behind to mark her territory. In her place, there was just no space for her at all. Still no Amber.

That's deliberate. Anyway, let's pay our respects. You ready?

Yes, ready. Dylan looked the way all people who died too young look. Unquestionably tragic. Oh man, he was 22.

That's not enough time for anything.

No, guess not. We approach the family to pay our condolences. It is weird. I mean, obviously.

Amy.

Eleanor, I'm so sorry for your loss.

I didn't expect to see you here.

Hey, neither did I. But here I am and here we are. Uh, not trying to cause a scene, but where's Amber? Like, drama, tears, fake and otherwise, cameras, national press. Seems like somewhere she would want to be, no?

I don't know where she is.

She didn't answer my calls.

Okay. If she shows up, it won't be for him.

I should go.

Take care of yourself, Eleanor. Richard, Elizabeth, I'm sorry for your loss. Dylan was complicated, but I think, like, in a good way.

Uh, okay.

Victor, Thomas, sorry for your loss.

Thank you.

Elizabeth, I'm so sorry for your loss.

Thank you.

You're Dee Dee's niece, aren't you?

Uh, that's right, yes, Marguerite.

I'm sorry about your aunt.

She was such a warm person, wasn't she? Oh, uh, thank you, she was warm, yes. I visited her shop whenever I was back in town. Oh, wow, okay.

Will you be keeping the shop? Uh, undecided, undecided. Keeping it a mystery, this one. Still a loose end, if you will. Come on, you.

Okay, we're out, oh my god.

Lots to unpack, or not a lot.

Not really sure.

I've never done ayahuasca, but like from what Cathy tells me, it sounds like going to a funeral from what I can tell. Definitely under the same, you know, experiential big top, like from what I'm experiencing here, and from what I've heard about Cathy's whole journey or trip or whatever. Or, I mean, as much as I can pay attention to, she does go on about it as I'm sure you can imagine.

Oh, I can imagine.

Like, holy fuck, we get it. It manifests as a fucking Incan death goddess, but it's also a hologram of a mathematical equation who is somehow a sad memory of your mother or something, plus you're naked in the jungle somewhere and barfing constantly. Who has the energy for that, dude? Come on.

So, yeah, just like a funeral.

Marguerite, Amy, hello.

Marion, hi.

I figured I'd see you two here.

Yeah, we made it.

I'm glad.

These things matter, even when they're hard.

Are you staying for the service?

Unfortunately, no.

Business, I can't reschedule. Terrible timing, but such is life.

But I'll see you both at the next Avalon Falls History Club meeting, though, assuming you're still interested in local intrigue.

Always. Great.

You know what?

Here.

My invitation for the service in the burial. Plus one.

I won't be needing it. Are you sure?

Very.

You two should be there.

Thank you. Take care of yourselves, girls. So, we just got a funeral upgrade, Chica. What's that make us now?

Furniture.

Comfortable furniture or?

Ikea. Hard-backed. No arm rests. Missing pieces. Important pieces.

Cool. So, Amber's really not here, huh?

She is not.

That's not grief.

Nope. That's logistics.

The wake was the last place you were allowed to feel unsure. After that, everything hardened into shape. Inside those walls, grief became orderly, absence became intentional, and Dylan Holt stopped being a person and started being a story everyone agreed on. We took our seats when they told us to, held our questions, watched the room close ranks. Whatever had happened to Dylan, this was where the town decided how it would be remembered. And once that happened, there was no getting the truth back out without breaking something.

Founders Chapel's sanctuary is bigger than it needs to be, built for echoes, built so even small sounds travel farther than they should. Old wood, vaulted ceiling, the kind of acoustics that make whispers feel risky. This isn't a place designed for comfort, it's designed to remember things a certain way. The front rows were already decided. The rest of us were sorted by availability. We're close enough, close enough to see, far enough to leave. The originals filled the first rows like fixtures, gold pins, familiar symbols, laurel leaves catching the light, barons, handlers, Bergmans, Holt's. Evan Parker was already seated with them, not hovering, not visiting, comfortable.

That feels earned.

Sure, that's what I don't like about it. Victor Holt arrives last. No rush, no acknowledgement, the room adjusted anyway.

Every time.

Gravity's consistent. When the service started, everything unfinished went quiet. That's the trick of ritual. It doesn't solve anything. It just buries it under ceremony. The language was careful, beautiful, hollow. Dylan Holt was described as promising, brilliant, loved. No one said by whom. It sounded like closure. It wasn't. It was containment. Then someone stood who wasn't supposed to.

Thomas?

Whoa. Thomas Holt wasn't the obvious choice to give Dylan's eulogy, which meant the choice wasn't accidental. This was the part where nothing unfinished was supposed to survive.

Thank you. For my family, for Dylan. People keep saying Dylan was complicated. I don't think that's true. I think he was observant. He noticed things about people, about places, about how things were supposed to work, and how they actually did. When he was a boy, he used to ask questions that didn't have obvious answers. The kind of questions adults don't love. The kind of questions you're supposed to grow out of. He never really did. I recognize that. I think a lot of the men in my family were like that once. Curious, restless, trying to understand the shape of the world they were handed. Some of us learned how to adapt. Some of us learned how to endure. Some of us learned how to stay quiet. Dylan never quite learned that last one. And I don't know if that was a failure or a refusal. Dylan loved this town, even when it didn't love him back. He believed Avalon Falls could be better than it is. Kinder, fairer, less quiet about the things it asks people to accept. He wasn't reckless, he wasn't naive. He was car eful, sometimes too careful. I wanna say something that doesn't fit neatly into a service like this, but I don't think Dylan would have wanted neat. We tell ourselves stories about why people die young. We look for meaning, for lessons. Sometimes, there aren't any. Sometimes, there's just inheritance. Sometimes, there's just legacy, the things passed down, the expectations, the silence, and the weight of learning. Too late, which parts of that inheritance were never meant to survive us. Dylan should be here. He should be arguing with me about something trivial. He should be rolling his eyes at this whole thing. He deserved more time, more room, more truth than this world was willing to give him. I loved my nephew, and I will spend the rest of my life wondering whether he saw the end of something, or the beginning. Thank you.

After Thomas finished, there was a pause. Not the kind you lean into, the kind that waits to be corrected. And just like that, the moment passed, folded back into the program, contained. The room absorbed it the way it absorbs everything uncomfortable. No public reaction, no visible disagreement. Even grief here had a tone it was expected to stay within. Victor Holt didn't move, didn't nod, didn't correct Thomas because he didn't need to. That was the point.

Well, that was so…

Yeah. This was the part where you were supposed to feel closure, where the story tightened around itself and pretended that was peace. Dylan Holt no longer belonged to himself. He belonged to the room, to the town, to whatever version of him was safest to remember. The story was being set carefully, correctly, which meant not truthfully. And anyone who tried to tell it differently would have to do it against everything in this room.

The reception is smaller, not quieter, just curated. Same people mostly, fewer exits. The ones who stayed are the ones who matter or think they do. Food appears, wine appears, grief loosens its tie and starts saying things it shouldn't. This is where the masks come off. Not all the way, just enough to breathe. Lily Siaya didn't take her mask off, she just adjusted it. She stood the way people do when they know every eye in the room has already decided who they are. Back straight, hands visible, no sudden movements. Officially she was Eleanor Holt's girlfriend. Unofficially she was the girl the town had tried on for a murder and decided almost fit. They'd arrested her fast, like certainty was contagious if you moved quickly enough. Now she was here, cleared, uncharged, unapologized to, standing in the same room as the people who'd pointed and nodded and let it happen. Lily didn't look scared or especially sad, she looked calibrated. Hey you two.

How are you holding up? Honestly?

I don't know.

Which feels like the most honest answer I've had all week. Yeah, makes sense.

Dylan didn't deserve whatever version of this they're going to tell.

He was trying. I know people hate hearing that about the Holt's.

I hate hearing that about the Holt's. But he was. We know.

He listened.

Which doesn't sound like much until you realize how rare it is around here. He wanted Onnia slowed down, wanted the land reviews done properly.

Not as a favor, like it was just the right order of things.

He kept saying, if we do this clean, they can't undo it later.

Like if you followed the rules hard enough, they protect him.

They usually don't.

Yeah, still. He tried to use what he had for something better.

That matters to me.

It matters to us too.

Thank you.

For everything.

Obviously. But also for not letting them turn me into the story instead of him.

Of course.

How's Eleanor doing? She's... angry. Which I think is easier than being sad right now.

Yeah, anger's got better posture. She wanted to come over, to talk to you both.

But this whole thing makes her want to flip tables. Valid response. Honestly, she's trying not to explode at anyone in her family right now.

That's progress, actually. I should circulate before someone decides I'm avoiding them on purpose. Good luck out there.

You too.

Both of you. You asked about Eleanor.

Yeah.

Thanks.

Anytime.

The reception wasn't about comfort, it was about proximity. And standing close enough to the truth that you could pretend you didn't see it.

You okay?

I just wish every decent thing someone does didn't get posthumously rebranded as a misunderstanding.

Aw, buddy, welcome to our hometown. Now tell me, do you want whatever this is?

Whoa, is that a shrimp or a lobster? It's huge.

It's a mutant sea kaiju, maybe? This affair is definitely guilt-catered.

For sure. There's like a whole fucking steak station.

Paid for with omnia money, possibly? Still, want to bite out of our tasty gamma-irradiated friend here?

Hard pass. That's a prawn for those of you whose palate tends toward corporate-approved slurry and focus group mascot-driven cereals. You should take one. It's aspirational. It's very difficult to mourn on an empty stomach. Trust me. Minerva. You both look functional. That's good. I suppose funerals are as much your element as tasteful despair or a cornfield circle. This is a fascinating room, isn't it?

That's one word for it.

Power hates funerals.

Too many witnesses, too many loose mouths. But it always shows up anyway. Relax. I'm not here for you. Good to know. Don't be offended. You've graduated.

Is that supposed to make us feel better?

No.

It's supposed to make you careful. I assume you've noticed who's standing with whom. Who isn't? Who arrived late? Who hasn't arrived at all? We've noticed a few absences. Yes. Absence is very loud today. Piper is fine, by the way.

Shaken.

Furious. Very much my daughter.

I'm glad.

Good.

Then we can all stop pretending. That was the story. Enjoy the proms if you change your minds.

Things are about to get... informative.

I liked her better when she hated us.

Oh, she still does. She just also thinks we're useful now.

That's worse.

Sure. When that stops being true, then she finishes what she started.

Receptions are where funerals loosen their grip. People start talking like the dead can't hear them anymore.

Do you see that?

Thomas Holt is standing near the windows. Not hiding, not holding court, just present.

Is that Claire heading over to talk with Thomas?

That didn't make sense at first. Claire doesn't orbit the Holt's. Claire doesn't orbit anyone. They aren't close. They aren't heated. They aren't doing anything that looked like a problem, which somehow makes it worse. They're talking like logistics or weather or...

Like two people who already agreed on something.

That's when I remembered the card. The one Thomas sent Walter. The part that stuck with me. The postscript. Please give my regards to Claire. She's always been very good at helping people move on. At the time, I thought it was a flex. Proof he knew everything. Now, I wasn't so sure that was all it was.

Hey, you okay, Jerky?

Yeah, I just... I didn't picture them knowing each other.

Maybe they don't. Maybe this is just funeral overlap. Anyway, she's a retired cop. Probably knows everyone.

Maybe. Claire saw us before we could decide what to do about it.

I was wondering if I'd run into you two.

I'm glad you came.

Of course.

This town notices who shows up, especially today.

Try not to work too hard in here. It's not the place.

We're off duty.

Good.

Some rooms don't like being poked.

She wasn't warning us. Not really. She was setting a boundary. We'll behave.

I know you will. Take care of yourselves, girls.

Well...

Yeah.

You thinking what I'm thinking?

If you're thinking that was nothing, and also definitely something.

Exactly that.

Funerals don't create secrets. They just rearrange who's standing next to them, or who's not standing next to them. Thomas Holt was still standing where Claire left him, still alone.

He hasn't gone anywhere?

No, and no one's gone to him. Whatever happened to Dylan Holt was already being remembered, not accurately, just officially. This wasn't where the truth lived. It was where the consequences gathered. By the time the room settled, the story had already chosen its shape. All that was left was to see who got buried with it.

The graveyard behind Founders Chapel isn't big. It doesn't need to be. There's only room here for people who were never meant to be forgotten. Originals only. The rest of the town gets remembered somewhere else. Funerals pretend everyone stands on equal ground. Burials don't.

Okay, so we're not supposed to be this close, right?

Absolutely not.

Oh well, let's hear it for transferable invites.

Tier one stood at the grave. Blood, legacy, obligation, family. You could feel the pull of it, like gravity got heavier the nearer you stepped. Tier two hovered just behind, power adjacent, trusted, watching the wind for which way it would turn.

Amy, Marguerite, morning.

Sheriff, didn't expect to see you here.

Didn't expect not to.

This town notices who shows respect.

Funny, seems pretty selective about it.

Oh, um, Amy?

I mean, there's a body in the river. Fresh, still warm.

We're aware.

Are we? Because it feels like one death shut down the town, and the other barely got a whisper.

Today isn't the day, Amy.

No, but it's definitely the place.

Be careful.

Funerals remember who makes scenes.

Yeah, so do rivers.

Deputy Lucas moved through the crowd the way staff do. No questions, no urgency, just making sure everyone ended up where they belonged. Deputy Monroe hovered near the back, like someone waiting to be told where to stand. Tier 3 stood where the ground started sloping away. Important enough to be present, not important enough to be included. And then there was us.

Marion knew this would happen, didn't she?

Must have.

Did she warn us?

Nope.

I'm gonna have a word with her at the next Avalon Falls History Club meeting.

First order of business on the agenda. Victor Holt didn't need to speak loudly. The space made room for him anyway.

Eleanor is right there.

Lily's one step back, close enough to matter, far enough to be reminded. They hadn't come to be seen, but being able to see everyone had cost them that choice. The words were careful, neutral, designed to smooth the moment until it fit.

I used to think the weird part was waking up and realizing everyone had already moved on.

Yeah?

After my coma. It felt like I'd slipped timelines, like my dad died in one version of the world, and I woke up in the one where it had already been processed. But this is just how it works, isn't it? People don't move on because they're cruel, they move on because the world doesn't stop long enough for anything else. I think that's what scares me. Not that it's unfair, just how fast it happens.

You don't get used to it, you just get better at noticing when it's happening.

Is this the part where...

Yes. There's a sound dirt makes when it hits a coffin. It's not loud, it's not dramatic, but it ends things. Dylan Holt was being placed where the town could keep him, measured, contained, remembered correctly, which meant not truthfully. Thomas Holt talked about beginnings and endings, about how you never really know which one you're looking at until it's already passed. But burials don't ask, they choose. They choose what people remember without thinking, what becomes easier to say over time, what eventually stops being said at all. They choose the version that fits. They decide what gets carried forward, and what gets left behind in the dirt.