“Granny? I’m leaving now. I’m—” I jump as she appears in the doorway, dressed all in black. “Entering your crone years, I see.” “Susan’s here to pick me up. I’m going to a funeral.” I pause, instantly guilty. “I’m sorry. Who died?” “Mary Boyd,” she says, and smiles like it’s the best news she’s heard all week. “I used to play bridge with her.” “And we’re…” I wait for her to stop smiling. She doesn’t. “We’re sad about this?” “God, no. She was a horrible woman.” “Then why are you going to her funeral?” “To gloat,” she says, like it’s obvious. “I outlived her.” “That is such an unhealthy way of
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