Amore, I repeat to myself. Doesn't that mean love?

There were texts throughout last Sat.u.r.day, into Sunday, and the whole next week. I lie in bed and try to scan them all. A lot are half English, half Spanish.

8:23 AM: Ma.s.s this morning then my little bro's b-day party at Chuck E. Cheese's . I probably won't see you this weekend. CALL ME. Te extrao mucho Monday. 9:03 AM: I'm texting in Am. Hist. Snooze alert. Where are you?

In an urn, I think.

11:45 AM: Call me. Text me. I'm on my way to lunch, but I'll keep my cell on 1:34 PM: Why haven't you called? Are you OK?

"No," I say. "She's not okay."

2:10 PM: Practice. But I'll be done by 3. CALL ME. I left you 100 vms An exaggeration. Still, I wish I could listen and see who this person is.

3:22 PM: What did I do? Are you mad at me? Please, Swan.

Tell me what I did It'd be a kindness to call this LT person and let her know Swanee will not be returning calls or texts.

I'm startled when my cell rings. It's after midnight.

"Would it be okay if I came over?" Joss asks. "I need to get out of this f.u.c.king asylum."

I feel for her, but I can't wallow in her grief, plus mine. Plus, I don't think Mom and Dad would be too thrilled about her showing up at this hour.

"I'm tired," I tell her.

She hesitates a moment, and then disconnects.

Another text comes in from LT: Please, Swan. Call me. Le amo con todo mi corazn Whatever that means.

My curiosity gets the best of me. I hit Recent Calls and redial Joss.

"Shouldn't you be asleep?" she says sarcastically.

I deserve that. "Do you know anyone with the initials LT?"

She pauses. "Why do you ask?"

I could tell her I stole-borrowed-Swanee's cell. Or not. "I saw the initials in Swan's room when I was in there."

"Who gave you permission to go in her room, anyway?"

"No one. I was just..." Trespa.s.sing? Trying to resurrect her from the dead? Joss was either barred from the room or had more respect than I did.

"Who's LT?" I ask again.

"Where did you see the initials?"

Where? "On a piece of paper."

There's such a long pause, I think Joss has left me hanging.

"Joss?"

"You don't want to know who she is," she says.

"Why?" I ask.

She disconnects again. G.o.d, she can be so irritating. On Swanee's cell, I open her contacts list. Great. Her entire list is initials only. AVP. That's me. Alix Van Pelt.

AD. Asher?

GD. Genjko?

JD. Joss or Jewell? Must be Jewell, because Joss got her phone taken away for sending lewd photos to some guy.

LT. She's in here.

RC. Rachel?

Swan doesn't have a very long list. Five or six more contacts.

Another text comes in. Why does she keep calling? Surely she knows Swanee is no longer available to take calls. Her death has been in the newspaper and on TV. How could anyone be so out of touch?

I suppose there could be a simple explanation. LT was out of town. She doesn't read the newspaper. She doesn't live in Colorado-except she mentioned Keystone.

I read the latest text.

Please. Please tell me what I did. Please, Swan. Le amo con todo mi corazn I get up and grab my laptop off my desk, turn it on. I Google the Spanish phrase.

My breath catches in my throat: I love you with all my heart.

Even though it's the middle of night, I'm wide awake. For some unknown, unG.o.dly reason, I reply to her text: Hey Immediately, I get a response.

OMG. OMG. OMG. Where have you been?

I reply: Here. I've been right here She goes on: Why didn't you answer? Why didn't you call?

I reply: I lost my cell For a week? Why didn't you use cell tracker?

I smack my forehead. Stupid answer.

My iPad's on the fritz OK. Sorry. Hope you get it working That sounds like she doesn't believe me. I wouldn't believe me, either.

She texts: When can we meet? I have a game every night this week, but what about Sat.u.r.day?

What kind of game? I wonder. What kind of game is she playing? Te amo. I'm so sure.

I text her: We'll talk tomorrow "s.h.i.+t," I think aloud. That was a dumb thing to say. Now what?

She texts: You sure you're OK? You sound mad I'm not mad I don't text: I'm dead.

Tomorrow we will talk and I'll get to the bottom of who this LT person is. I'll tell her about Swanee and be done with it.

She texts: Duerma con los angelitos, querida I Google the translation: Sleep with the angels, sweetheart.

Chapter 5.

Swan's phone dings at 7:10 AM: Buenos dias, amore. How was your run? We're off to Ma.s.s, but I'll get away later so we can talk. Maybe meet? I miss you so much I don't text back. And I don't call. Last night I turned off Location Services so no one can track Swanee's cell using her GPS. I notice Swan's battery is nearly drained, and I know the best thing to do would be to just let the cell die. Burn it and bury it with Swanee.

I page through her texts to find the last one I sent her.

Friday. The day before.

What time do you want me there in the morning?

For s...o...b..arding at Keystone. Which we never did. Keystone. How would LT know about Keystone? I feel so confused and sad and empty, all at once. I plug in to my nano to let my music drown out the grief. Unfortunately, most of the songs on my playlist are the ones Swanee loaded, and that only intensifies the pain. Removing the earbuds, I cover my head with my pillow. I must fall asleep because the sound of my name jolts me back to consciousness.

The door opens wider.

"Alix? It's almost noon," Mom says.

So what? Time is irrelevant.

"Jewell's on the phone. She wants to know what time you're coming over to get your things."

It takes me a moment to clear my head. I scramble out of bed and realize I'm wearing the same clothes I wore to Swanee's service.

Mom's disappeared.

Downstairs, Dad's at the table reading the paper, while Ethan is making a gaggy mess of his breakfast. Mom motions me to the cordless, which she set on the breakfast bar.

I grab it and head into the living room. "Hi." I clear my throat.

"Alix, we decided last night to go to Hawaii. We've been saving up for a vacation, and now is as good a time as any. We need to get out of here and, you know, regroup. We're leaving in a few hours, so if you want your things, could you come over and get them?"

"Yeah, of course." I want to ask if I can go with them. To... regroup. "I just need to get dressed." Rather, changed. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

A duffel nearly clobbers me as it's tossed down the hall, but Asher yanks me out of the way. "Watch it, Genjko." Then he says to me, "Sorry about that."

Genjko's anger is palpable. He rarely leaves his room, so I'm sure he's being coerced to go on this trip.

"Take whatever's yours and I'll donate the rest to Goodwill," Jewell says to me.

"No!" Joss cries, dumping her backpack on the pile of luggage. "Everything she has belongs to me."

Jewell says coolly to Joss, "What makes you think that?"

"She was my sister." Joss's voice trembles.

"We don't need bad karma in this house," Jewell replies. "Right, Genjko?"

He storms out the door. I wonder how he feels about Swanee's death. Or about anything at all.

Joss pushes past me and slams out after him.

"There's a set of keys under the ceramic frog on the front porch," Jewell tells me. "Just lock up on your way out."

I stand and watch until they drive away. The heater cranks off with a hiss, jarring me out of my stupor.

My footsteps creak as I walk down the hallway. Swanee's door is closed, the same way I left it. I brought an empty backpack, and as I begin to slog through the flotsam and jetsam of Swanee's life, I notice there's more of me here than I thought. Swan borrowed a pair of sweats and jeans and two long-sleeved thermal s.h.i.+rts. A lot of the b.u.t.ton jewelry I made her is strewn haphazardly across the floor, along with library books that will eventually be overdue.

My knees go weak and I have to sit. Then lie down. I bundle a blue sweats.h.i.+rt under my head and curl into a ball. "Why did you have to die?" I whisper.

Silence presses against my body and a tear rolls out of the corner of my eye.

"I need you. I love you."

My cell jingles in my bag. The ringtone for Mom. I let it go to voice mail and stay still until I begin to s.h.i.+ver from the cold of the floor, or the lack of human warmth. I retrieve my phone and listen to Mom's message: "Are you almost done? I need you to do some grocery shopping for me."

Ch.o.r.es, ch.o.r.es, ch.o.r.es. Swanee never had any ch.o.r.es or responsibilities.

Mom adds at the end, "I'll leave the list on the fridge."

Lists, lists, lists. I'd been living under a fascist regime until I met Swanee and saw the light of liberation.

I want to memorize every square inch of this room. My cell is in my hand, so I snap pictures.

I have dozens of pictures of Swanee on my cell. Goofy shots of her making faces, sticking out her tongue or crossing her eyes; candid shots of her in the moment. A close-up of us kissing.

I need to stop torturing myself, but I can't let her cell die. Her charger is plugged in to the wall, so I pull it out and drop it into my bag. On my way to the door, my foot crunches a CD. I bend over to pick it up. There's no label. Only a line written in permanent marker: LIANA Before I even make it home, Swan's cell pings. I swerve to the curb and read it while I'm idling.

Hi. You didn't call me. I left you a vm. Did you get it? I can probably get away to meet you later today. If you want. Call me. Por favor!

I text back: Where do you want to meet and when?

She texts: Our regular place? Like, 4:30?

s.h.i.+t. What's their regular place?

I text: Let's go to a new place. I have something to tell you There's a long pause before her next text arrives.