“My mom croaked, too. She’s under that smug angel in the boneyard on Hickory Street. The one with all the garlands and Annabel Lee.” Her voice was hushed, just loud enough that I’d hear her. There was a crookedness in her tone, something sharp and red and raw. I recognized that tone of voice. It sounded a lot like mine. My mouth twisted upward. It wasn’t out of mirth. “We should start a club.”
