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on it. He called a cheery thanks as the two girls jumped out of the car and ran inside the crematorium.
    Hearing music, Abigail opened the door on the left of the foyer. The room was packed with wailing grievers. A family member was reading a eulogy. At the foot of the coffin stood a flower-drenched easel with a picture of a smiling teenage boy. Wrong room. She ran out again and pushed the other door.Camelia still hadn’t uttered so much as a peep since Abigail had dragged her from No Life. Part of her was relieved and not all that surprised. Another part wanted to know what this very sad Romanian immigrant thought of all this madness.
    There were no grievers in here. Just a minister and a coffin that was slowly disappearing through a purple velvet curtain toward an abyss of flickering flames. Another man stood at the back behind a pillar. All she could see was some blond hair. It almost looked as if he were hiding. Maybe he was lost. Abigail sat in the front row. Camelia slid in beside her.
    “Should I say goodbye?” Abigail only realized she was speaking out loud when her voice caught. This was all happening too fast, too fast …
    The coffin disappeared into the furnace.
    The minister picked up his bible and walked out without as much as a sideways glance. There were no flowers, no pictures. She swallowed.
Funerals are supposed to be depressing, but this one takes the biscuit
. Abigail turned to the blond man. He was already halfway out the back door. She chased after him, Camelia on her heels. By the time they got outside, he’d jumped in a taxi. The back of his blond head disappeared down the long driveway.
    Camelia must have seen the disappointment and sadness on her face. She reached for Abigail’s arm.
    Screw this
.
    Abigail marched back into the crematorium and asked the woman at reception if she could make arrangements to have her mother’s ashes sent to her new address. She didn’t knowher new address yet. Nor did she know what she’d do with the ashes. But it had occurred to her the previous night that she should probably find a way to get them in case her newly discovered sister was as baffled by all this as she was.
    The receptionist tapped on the computer. “I’m sorry. The next of kin has already requested the urn.”
    “Next of kin? Who?”
    “I’m afraid I can’t give you that information.”
    “She was my mother!” Abigail almost yelled. “How can you not give me that information?”
    “If she was your mother,” the receptionist said through clenched teeth that were asking to be knocked out, “then how could you not already know?”
    Abigail’s jaw dropped. Fortunately, Camelia dragged Abigail away from the desk and out the door before she could say a word.
    “Come on,” Camelia murmured. “We go. Leave it. It’s nearly two o’clock.”
    T HE TAXI REACHED T HE Solid Bar at ten past two. Abigail’s nerves had once again frozen into their standard unfeeling position. “Wait for me here and leave the meter running,” she instructed.
    Billy was drinking a pint in the same seat as yesterday. He wore the same Glasgow underworld uniform, labels displayed for the world to see (Jeans: Diesel; T-shirt: Calvin Klein; Overall Message to the Universe: Unoriginal). It was obvious that he hadn’t washed. He probably hadn’t slept since she’d last seenhim either. His sockets were so dark and so deep that his eyes almost disappeared into his head. His greasy hair stuck up at the back. His cheek scar was red, irritated. Without a word, he slid a passport out of his pocket and slammed it on the table, trying to smile as if pleased. But he was jittery, haggard. Crank, probably.
    Abigail reached for it.
    “Uh-uh. Other half first,” Billy snapped.
    “Once I’ve looked at it,” Abigail said, snatching it from his grasp and opening it.
    For a split-second, she was almost tempted to laugh. She found herself squinting at a thirty-two-year-old red-haired woman called Alina Beklea. “What? Who?