She was a liar, impersonating Lily’s pain onstage, twisting it into some public thing she could use for herself, for the Waltz Girl, tapping into a cheap well of things she wasn’t willing to think about or talk about unless it benefited her. This was the big sister Lily would come home to: someone who hadn’t looked sorrowful or done any of the right mourning things, who’d skipped almost every memorial, every new search, because she was dancing and traveling while her sister lived in a basement. When they were little, she’d made up stories for Lily not just because Lily enjoyed them but because
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