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“I’m back in school, actually,” he continued. “Or, well, I guess it’s the first time I’vegoneto school like a regular student.”

“He’s studying psychology at Stanford.” Andre looped his arm around Garrett’s waist and beamed at him with supportive pride. “Top of his class.”

“That’s amazing, Garrett,” I said. “Congratulations.”

The minister, a gray-haired woman in a pantsuit, took up her position behind the podium. There was no casket, only a portrait of Sheila in her prime—the gold dress, the gold medal around her neck—and an elaborate spray of white orchids and lilies to match the smaller arrangements in pedestal bowls along the edge of the pool.

“You can sit with us,” Garrett offered, gesturing to the section reserved for family. Bella sat alone in the front row, her intricate braided chignon and impeccable posture unmistakable.

“Oh no, that’s all right,” I told him. “I’ll see you after the service.”

I took a seat in the back, a still empty row that everyone steered clear of once they spotted me. As the rest of the chairs filled in, I scanned the crowd and told myself I wasn’t looking for Heath.

Seconds later, I spotted him coming down the stairs beside the mausoleum. He’d grown a full beard, and he took the steps two at a time with the rhythmic grace of a trained dancer. I held my breath, hoping he wouldn’t look at me or acknowledge me in any way, and also longing to spring out of my seat and run toward him.

I needn’t have worried. Heath didn’t notice me, and he sat in the front.

Right beside Bella.

The ceremony got under way with a brief, secular eulogy, before the minister brought Kirk Lockwood up to charm the crowd with a few stories from Sheila’s skating career. Garrett took the stage next, delivering a moving speech about how much he had always admired his mother, and how glad he was she had gotten the chance to know the real him—and the man he loved—before her death.

“Finally,” the minister said, “Sheila’s daughter, Isabella, would like to say a few words.”

I held my breath, bracing myself for my first look at Bella Lin’s face since the night she’d betrayed me. But she didn’t move from her seat.

Garrett leaned down to say something to her. Bella shook her head, and her shoulders trembled. She was crying, or trying hard not to.

Heath put his arm around her, and her shuddering stopped. Bella still made no move to rise, though. Instead, she leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder.

The minister tried to smooth over the awkward moment. “Let’s move on to the—”

“I’d like to say something.”

Kirk Lockwood:I still couldn’t believe Sheila was gone.

Close-up of the flowers and portrait at Sheila Lin’s funeral, slowly panning back to show the mourners gathered around the Fairbanks Reflecting Pool at Hollywood Forever Cemetery.

Francesca Gaskell:She was at the Grand Prix Final with me and Evan in December, fierce as ever. And then a few weeks later…

Garrett Lin:It was sudden, but I think that’s how my mother would have wanted it, if she’d had a choice in the matter.

Veronika Volkova:You want me to say something sweet about Sheila, because she is dead? Please. What do you think she would say about me if I were the one in the ground and she was sitting here with you?

Ellis Dean:It was a lovely service. And then Katarina Shaw showed up.

Katarina’s voice comes from behind the camera: “I’d like to say something.”

The shot swings around to show her, standing in the last row, then follows as she walks up to the podium. The bewildered minister moves out of frame, ceding the floor to her.

Katarina takes off her sunglasses and holds them clenched in her fist.

“The first time I saw Sheila Lin,” she says, “I was four years old. And my mother had just died.”

Cut to another camera angle, focused on Bella Lin, who is seated between her brother and Heath Rocha in the front row. Her mirrored sunglasses reflect the blue sky.

Katarina continues: “She’d been sick for a long time—so long, I don’t have any memories of her healthy. I don’t remember her funeral either. But you know what I’ll never forget?”

A beat, as she looks out over the black-clad audience. No one moves.