The wind still stirred the leaves overhead, birds still called from the branches, and the occasional muffled sob carried across the rows of gravestones. Yet there was a strange stillness hanging over the cemetery all the same, as though even nature understood that today belonged to grief.
Taylor remained near the edge of the gathering, standing beneath the broad canopy of an old oak tree that overlooked the service from a comfortable distance. Her father stood a short distance away, close enough that anyone looking would recognise they had arrived together, but far enough that she still had space.
Neither of them had spoken much during the drive over, especially since Taylor hadn’t wanted to come. She had made that abundantly clear the previous evening.
“I don’t belong there.”
Danny had looked at her for a long time before answering. “I think you do.”
“They hated me.”
“I know.”
“They’re dead because of me.”
“I know.”
“They’re going to hate me even more now.”
His expression had drawn even further in at that before he gave a resigned sigh. “Their parents probably will.”
Taylor said nothing in response.
In the end, she’d agreed, and it wasn't because she believed attending would somehow make things right. Nothing could. She came because Danny had explained that if she spent the entire day hiding in her room, imagining the funeral from a distance, whatever she pictured would almost certainly be worse than reality.
He had been right about that before. Hopefully, he would be right again.
But she certainly wasn’t going anywhere near the mourners. Even from where she stood, she could recognise several faces.
Alan Barnes.
Emma’s mother and sister standing beside him, looking decades older than the last time Taylor had seen them.
Sophia’s scant relatives clustered together in sombre black clothing.
Madison’s parents stood almost motionless, staring at the coffin as though refusing to blink might somehow change what they were seeing.
Taylor kept her eyes lowered.
She had no desire to discover whether any of them recognised her. Cape or not, Ward or not, she doubted grief would make much distinction. And once in front of them, there would be nothing she could possibly say.
No apology would matter. No explanation would lessen what they had lost. And if someone shouted…
If someone accused…
If someone demanded to know why their daughter was dead while she remained alive…
Taylor wasn’t entirely certain how she would respond, and that uncertainty alone was enough reason to remain where she was. Away from the graves, and families specifically.
The priest’s voice drifted across the cemetery, carried by the breeze more than by volume. She caught only snippets about mercy, forgiveness, peace, and other meaningless words that always seemed easier to speak than to believe.
Her gaze settled upon the coffin. Singular.
The decision had become something of a rumour within the PRT. She wasn’t supposed to know about it, but apparently, there had been considerable disagreement between the families. All but Sophia’s had wanted a private funeral, as no parent wanted to share their daughter’s final farewell. It was understandable. Cruelly understandable.
Unfortunately, the condition of the bodies had rendered that impossible.
Taylor closed her eyes.
She had never seen them afterwards, and she never wanted to. What little she’d overheard had been enough. Apparently, the force of her attack had left so little intact that identifying where one girl ended and another began had required extensive forensic reconstruction. And even then, there had been little certainty.
Eventually, practicality had overtaken grief. So one coffin and service.
Taylor had heard someone speculate that the shared funeral also reduced costs.
But it felt… wrong to think of them like that, so she had dismissed the thought immediately. For her own sake more than anyone else’s.
Her eyes drifted back to the grave.
The angry part of her still existed, whispering that the three beneath the polished wood had earned this. That they had made choices every day for months. That every bruise, every insult, every lonely lunch, every ruined notebook, and every moment spent wondering whether tomorrow would somehow be worse than today had started with choices.
That same voice suggested she should walk over once everyone left, spit on the grave, kick over the flowers, and leave them with even less dignity than they had ever afforded her.
Taylor hated that voice, mostly because some small part of her still agreed with it.
She tightened her fingers until her nails dug into her palms.
“I know,” she whispered.
The voice quietened in response.
“You don’t have to do anything but watch.”
Taylor looked up. A woman had approached without her noticing.
She wasn’t especially tall, nor particularly imposing.
Brown hair framed a calm, bespectacled face that carried the sort of gentle attentiveness Taylor usually associated with teachers who genuinely enjoyed helping students rather than simply tolerating them.
She wore a dark suit appropriate for the funeral, though there was something distinctly less formal about her posture, and more… approachable.
She stopped several feet away, leaving the distance between them intact.
“My name is Jessica Yamada.”
Taylor regarded her silently.
“I’m a psychologist.”
Jessica offered a small, apologetic smile as Taylor resisted the sudden urge to sigh.
“The PRT asked whether I’d be willing to speak with you.”
Taylor couldn’t quite decide what emotion surfaced first. Annoyance, maybe suspicion. But no, that wasn't quite right. Maybe it was something warmer, because someone had thought about her at all. That someone within the organisation had apparently looked at everything that had happened over the past several weeks and concluded she might need help.
It was unexpected, kind, and infuriating all at once.
“I assume,” Taylor said carefully, “this is where you ask me to start attending therapy.”
Jessica didn’t pretend otherwise. “I’d like to.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then I thank you for your time.”
Taylor frowned. “That’s it?”
“I’m not here to force you.”
“So this isn’t mandatory.”
“No.”
“Strongly encouraged?”
Jessica smiled slightly. “Very.”
Taylor looked back towards the service. “I appreciate the concern.” And she genuinely did, more than she expected. “But I don’t think I need it.”
Jessica remained silent, simply waiting, and Taylor continued after a moment. “I’ve thought about what happened.” Every quiet moment. “I understand why I did what I did.”
Understanding wasn’t the same as approval, but it was enough.
“And I’ve accepted it.”
Jessica nodded once. “I believe you.”
Taylor blinked. “You do?”
“I do.”
“…You’re not going to argue?”
“I don’t think you’re lying.”
The answer caught Taylor off guard.
Jessica clasped her hands together. “But accepting something happened and healing from it aren’t always the same thing.”
Taylor looked away. “I know.”
“I also know they’re sometimes close enough that people mistake one for the other.”
Before Taylor could answer, raised voices erupted from the gathering. Her head snapped around to see that Alan Barnes had broken away from the mourners, moving with enough speed and purpose that several people reached for him instinctively. His face was red, and his shoulders shook.
Taylor’s dad had only just turned before Alan stopped only a step away, breathing hard enough that his shoulders shook.
“You’ve got some nerve!” The shout carried across the cemetery.
Taylor felt her stomach drop as Alan shoved her dad hard enough to stagger him backwards.
“You bring her here?”
Another step.
“After what she—”
A pair of men appeared almost instantly from where they had been standing discreetly among the mourners moments earlier. Covert PRT security.
One caught Alan by the arm before he reached her dad again, and the other stepped between them.
“Sir.”
“Get off me!” Alan screamed. “My daughter is dead!”
Taylor couldn’t hear the rest as the words devolved into overlapping voices. Someone was crying, and another was trying to calm Alan down.
Taylor’s dad was saying something she couldn’t make out.
Still, Alan struggled against the agents. “My daughter—” The sentence never finished as he collapsed into inconsolable sobs.
Taylor stared, the guilt striking with enough force that it almost folded her in half. It wasn't the abstract guilt she’d carried for days, or the intellectual acknowledgement that three people had died.
This…
This was a father.
A grieving father trying to reach another parent because he needed somewhere to put the unbearable weight of losing his child.
And the reason he had chosen her dad…
…was because Taylor still lived.
Her throat tightened painfully.
She hadn’t killed only the trio. She had broken families. Parents would walk past bedrooms that would never be lived in again. They would spend the rest of their lives wondering what they could have done differently.
Taylor closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, Jessica was still standing exactly where she’d been.
Taylor let out a slow breath. “…I’ll do it.”
Jessica cocked her head to the side slightly, so Taylor added, “The therapy.” She couldn’t bring herself to look towards the mourners again. “I’ll do it.”
For several seconds, Jessica said nothing. The psychologist simply studied her with an expression Taylor couldn’t immediately decipher. It was neither satisfaction nor relief. If anything…
It looked complicated. Almost… saddened. And that expression lingered between them as the funeral continued behind them.