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she has always been loving to me. She raised me as if I were her own child. She pestered me about my homework. She encouraged me to join sports teams, to try out for school plays, to sing in the choir at church, to volunteer at the local seniors’ center, to be, as she put it, a member of the community. To be good. And she listened. Okay, so there were some things—things about my father—that I learned never to discuss with her. But if there was anything else on my mind, she stopped what she was doing and she gave me her full attention. She never told me what to do. Instead, she always asked me what I thought was the right thing. And I always figured things out. But she isn’t here with me now. And even if she were, I don’t think I’d talk to her about my father. I would be too afraid of what she might say. And, depending on the words that came out of her mouth, I’d be afraid that I would hate her. Then I would be alone forever.
    Finally, there’s the question of the funeral.
    It’s Saturday afternoon. I’ve just come back from buying some groceries—a few apples, a container of yogurt, a can of tuna, a box of macaroni and cheese, some milk, a loaf of bread, some frozen peas and—I can’t stop myself—a newspaper. I’ve put the food away, and I have the newspaper spread out on the kitchen table. I’m paging through it, scanning for any news about my father.
    There’s nothing.
    But my eye catches sight of a familiar name. Newsome . On the obituary page.
    It’s a death notice for Tracie Newsome, “beloved wife of Robert Newsome, loving stepmother to Finn Newsome.” There’s a picture of her. She’s pretty. Was pretty. The little article doesn’t say she was shot to death. Instead, it says she died “suddenly and tragically in the prime of life.” It mentions her passion for her friends, her love of an afternoon or evening on the town, her support for charitable causes.
    Someone knocks at the door.
    It’s the woman detective. Detective Sanders.
    â€œI was on my way home,” she says. “So I thought I’d drop by instead.”
    Instead of what? I wonder.
    â€œThey’ve released the body,” she says. “Your father, I mean. They want to know where to send him.”
    I stare at her. Where to send him? What is she talking about?
    She looks at me like she’s studying for a test.
    â€œCan I come in for a minute, Lila?” she asks.
    I step aside to let her pass. She closes the door gently behind her.
    Now that she’s inside, I feel I have to offer her something—tea or coffee. But she shakes her head.
    â€œI’m fine,” she says. She glances around our—my—bare apartment. “They want to know what funeral home to send the body to,” she says in a soft voice. “Have you given any thought to the arrangements?”
    I shake my head and feel like an idiot. I have no idea what I thought was going to happen, but, no, I haven’t given any thought to the arrangements.
    â€œLila,” she says, “I’m sorry to have to ask this, and I don’t mean any offense by it, but do you have any money to pay for a funeral? Did your father have an insurance policy or anything like that?”
    â€œI don’t think so,” I tell her. Knowing my father, I doubt it.
    She pulls a small folded paper from her jacket pocket and holds it out to me. It’s a brochure.
    â€œThe city has a program,” she says. “It pays funeral costs when next of kin can’t afford to.”
    I take the brochure from her, but I don’t look at it. Something is wrong with my eyes all of a sudden. They won’t focus. I can’t read the words.
    â€œI can call them if you want,” Detective Sanders says. “Would that be okay?”
    I nod.
    â€œOkay.” She smiles at me. It makes her look like a regular person instead of a cop. “Okay. I’ll