My name is Sarah, and I could not stop watching him. Leo barely cried or moved from his chair, almost as though Rachel had given him one final responsibility and he was terrified of failing her.
We held the wake at my mother’s house in Asheville because Rachel had always hated the idea of a cold funeral home. Yet almost nothing about that evening felt like my sister, especially the explanation her husband, Marcus, had given for her sudden death.
According to him, Rachel had fallen down the stairs.
A terrible accident.
Three days earlier, however, Rachel had left me an unsettling voicemail.
“If something strange ever happens to me, don’t stay silent.”
I had not pushed her to explain what she meant.
Now I wished I had.
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