The funeral was held four days later.
Novalee moved through the preparations in a daze. Caskets. Flowers. Programs. Readings. James handled most of it—she couldn't focus, couldn't make decisions, couldn't function.
She knew Dante had killed them. Knew it with absolute certainty. But she couldn't prove it. Couldn't tell anyone. Couldn't do anything but bury her parents and know that their blood was on her hands.
She'd fought him. She'd stabbed him with that fork. And he'd punished her by taking away the two people who'd raised her, loved her, supported her.
This was her fault.
The funeral was small—her parents had been private people. James's family came. Some of her parents' friends. Coworkers. Neighbors. Greysen showed up, offering condolences Novalee barely heard.
She stood by the
