8
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The sanctuary of First United Methodist is packed to its fifteen-hundred-capacity overflow balcony with mourners. Reporters stalk the narthex. At the lectern, Pastor Franklin is in rare form. A terrific orator, he barely needs a mic, his voice rising and swelling. A fine tribute to the dead.
Tad and his parents sit a few rows forward, next to Yara and her folks. My insides tighten, seeing them together. He said he was okay, a little weird but managing—but he’s got a kind of far-off look. Honestly, I’m surprised he’s here at all, given the horror he witnessed. I wish he weren’t here, and not just because of Yara. It’s hard enough without my thoughts for him distracting me: Four days post-slaughter, and still no sign of paranormal activity—or rather, no sign indicative
