But then again, I did not want Rose to get the seat. I didn’t want her to whisper toxic, friendship-ending things into her mentees’ ears. I didn’t want her to think she could win by invoking her dead friend’s name. And I didn’t want Stephen St. James to not get called out for what he had done.

I slid out of the seat and walked out of the church. On the front steps, I dialed Mike Parsons. When I saw the bobbing lenses from the small crowd across the street, I turned and headed into the courtyard, away from the cameras.

“Ms. Otsuka!” he said brightly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I accept the job, under two conditions.”

“That’s wonderful news! What might those conditions be?”

“Tell me, how much was Rose McGill countering her salary to be?”

“Ah . . .” he paused. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

“But she was countering.” I said it as a statement. Rose was always holding out for more. “She was not happy with what she was offered.”

“Well, ye-es . . .”

“I’ll do it for the amount you offered her. Send the offer to my lawyer.”

They had not quoted me eight figures. But they’d told her something in the teen millions.

“And the second?”

“You release a statement of why you decided against hiring Stephen St. James,” I said. “I even came up with the wording for you: ‘That while Sing It is proud of its alumni and past contestants, you don’t support or condone any actions that include beating women.’ If you don’t, I’ll have a press release of my own about what I know.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, a resigned, “I’ll pass this along to my boss, Ms. Otsuka.”

“Tell them that I’m a reasonable person. These are the only demands I’ll make during my tenure as judge. But the St. James statement is nonnegotiable. And it should be easy to align yourself with what is right, don’t you think?”

I hung up. The pressure on my chest released and I breathed deeply in and out a few times, trying to slow my heart rate. Then I snuck back into the church and stood at the back as Melanie finished speaking and sat down. I realized that the casket had made its way up the aisle while we’d been whispering, and I’d missed it. We’d been arguing in front of Cassidy this entire time; shame made my throat tighten. I whispered toward her spirit, I’m sorry. Sorry for Alex. Sorry for my mistake. Sorry, sorry, sorry.

Epilogue

Melanie

Thank you for coming.” Melanie speaks into the microphone. “My family and I appreciate your presence today in celebrating my sister’s life.

“We gather in memory of Cassidy May Holmes. She grew up here in Houston with my two older brothers and me and my twin. She sang and danced. She loved Drew Barrymore movies.

“I blinked and she was gone.

“My sister.”

Melanie had watched her parents walk together up the stairs of the church, leaning heavily on each other, tired in a way that it hurt her bones to see them. The family had elected Melanie to give the eulogy. So she begins to talk about Cass’s childhood, her formative years. Melanie recognizes her anger. As she speaks, she thinks, Cassidy had been born, which in itself is lucky enough. She grew. Meal after meal, tiny body growing like a weed, the audacity of her lungs taking in breath and nourishing her blood.

“During her last year of high school, she had the opportunity to compete in a nationally televised singing competition, which was the springboard for her career. Though she didn’t win, she impressed the judges enough that one offered her a job a little while later. And so the global phenomenon of Gloss was born.”

At the mention of Gloss, Melanie’s eyes roam the crowd of black-suited mourners, looking for the members. Merry is easy to find, with her halo of white-blond hair, and after another glance up from her notes, Melanie spots Rose sitting demurely in the back. The story about Rose and Cassidy’s relationship had come out the day before, and Melanie wonders how Rose has the audacity to show up. None of her family had known about Cassidy’s sexuality, but then again, Cassidy hadn’t discussed her personal life with them much.

“But while Cassidy’s professional life was at an all-time high, her personal one was more subdued. People who knew Cassidy, the person—not Cassidy, the performer—reflected on her quiet nature, her love of baking, and how much she enjoyed being at home. And in her years since leaving the music industry—”

Her eyes alight on Joanna, seated next to Alex, his hand resting on a cane. His leg is stretched out in front of him, his ankle in the aisle. Edie is nowhere to be seen.

People have this notion that depressed people are shut-ins. Antisocial. That they have no families and no friends. It’s true, Cassidy pushed her family aside often—eschewing home visits, skipping Thanksgivings—but she always made it back for Christmas. She’d laugh and smile, they’d go to the movies on Christmas Eve, she’d bake her signature cookies.

Melanie flew out to see her, maybe once a year. The last time she saw Cassidy was several months ago. The sisters took turns petting Cass’s old dog, Penny, the only other relic from her Gloss days besides an MVA statuette in her bathroom cabinet, which almost took Melanie’s eye out when it fell from a high shelf as she searched for makeup wipes. “Shit!” she’d shrieked, and Cassidy came running, bursting into the bathroom.

“Oh, that thing,” she’d said, stooping to pick up the statuette, which was now dented slightly.

“Don’t you have a better place for that?”

“Nah. Where would I put it?”

Her house in Pasadena was on the smaller side.

“Out, somewhere, maybe? On your coffee table? On a bookshelf?”

Cassidy stuffed it precariously back into the bathroom cabinet. “I don’t really care about it,” she said, closing the door as the statue thumped against it.

But she must have—right? She saw it every time she had to get toilet paper. It was hidden, but it wasn’t forgotten.

She had weathered the fallout from Gloss, she hadn’t moved back to Texas, and Melanie couldn’t understand why.

At the pulpit, Melanie continues: “—in her years since leaving the music industry, Cassidy had an active life. She sought roles without high profiles, like volunteer positions at soup kitchens and senior living centers, behind the scenes. I think she wanted to do things that mattered and help individual people.” She swallows.

Their parents’ faces in the front row are tear-streaked. Melanie’s twin sits stoically, trying not to cry, holding her husband and son. Patrick and his boyfriend, Robbie and his wife, they’re all passing a pack of travel tissues down the pew.

The last time Melanie saw Cassidy, she asked her, “If you still have that mansion in Hollywood, why not stay there when I come to visit?” They were sitting on the porch of the small house. Cassidy passed her a can of lemonade. “It’s huge. I wouldn’t have to take over your bed and you could sleep on something besides a couch. I mean, you basically use it as an off-site hotel for Mom and Dad when they come.”

“But then we’d have to be in that house. I should just sell it.” She smirked, her Sassy Cassy grin.