The two women exchange glances, but I don’t wait for them to speak again. I bend over, set the stack of pages down in the damp grass, and dart away, chasing the distant figures of Kajal and Leonie, the mourners milling like ravens in the church parking lot. When I glance back, Ellis’s mothers are flitting around, chasing pages that have caught the wind, snapping desperately after paper and ink—the last that remains of their daughter.
