Reconstructing Amelia

by Kimberly McCreight

“Your daughter, Amelia”—the detective was crouched next to her now—“she fell from the roof, Mrs. Baron. She was . . . she unfortunately didn’t survive the fall. I’m sorry, Mrs.

Baron. But your daughter, Amelia, is dead.” gRaCeFULLY SEPTEMBER 12TH Because there are 176 definitions for the word loser on urbandictionary.com.

Her mother, Gretchen—in her sole and largely token effort to be helpful—had selected lilies for Amelia’s funeral. They were lovely and tasteful. And terrible. Looking at them, that familiar burn flared up in the back of Kate’s throat.

“Listen, Amelia, I know we don’t know each other very well, and there’s a reason for that. I looked through your file before you got down here, and it’s basically flawless—outstanding grades, two varsity letters, head of the French club, four honors classes. You’ve never even been marked late. And now this? Why?”

“Why,” Kate said, trying not to let Sylvia upset her. Sylvia was upset, too—Kate understood that. “I want to know why. I want to know what happened in Amelia’s life to put her in that place. Because I don’t believe it. I don’t think she would have done it.”

E? WHAT ARE YOU LIKE A DRUG ADDICT ALL OF A SUDDEN OR SOMETHING? Amelia had written. NOT COOL, BRO. ANYWAY, I CAN’T GO, I’VE GOT AN EARLY PRACTICE SUNDAY A.M.

“Who’s Phillip Woodhouse?” he asked. “We think he could be our mystery boyfriend?” “He’s the headmaster at Grace Hall.”