I froze at the door, my hand on the handel. I turned to face her. I could see her, crumpled on the ground for the second time that evening- completly wretched. I felt a pang of guilt, but it was over-washed by the unthinking anger. “What?” I asked, my voice cutting.
She met my gaze, her eyes suddenly sparked with hope through her tears. “Keen,” she said, her voice betraying her desperation, “Cynthia’s father. He thought it would be better if everyone thought she was dead… instead of hoping, waiting… he… he wanted you to move on. He didn’t want you to be stuck.”
Hope gleened in her eyes again, and I realized I’d dropped my hand from the door handel. “Her father?” I asked, unable to contain myself, “But… no. I was at… I was at the funeral…”
She shook her head, her tears glistening in her eyes. “Close-coffin,” she whispered, so quiet I almost couldn’t hear it.
I stood, dumbstruck, frozen so I thought I’d never move again.
Because after all this time, Cynthia couldn’t possibly be…
Alive?