Red Glove by Holly Black

probably use glass.” He blanches a little. “And fill the body with disinfecting fluid.”
    “Oh,” I say.
    “Dude, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you that.”
    I shake my head. “I asked.”
    Sam is dressed a lot like Philip. I’m wearing my father’s suit, the one that had to be dry-cleaned to get rid of Anton’s blood. Morbid, I know. It was that or my school uniform.
    Daneca comes up to us, looking like she’s masquerading as her mother in a navy sheath and pearls.
    “Do I know you?” I ask.
    “Oh, shut up,” she says automatically. Then, “Sorry, I didn’t—”
    “Everyone has to stop saying they’re sorry,” I say, maybe a tiny bit too loudly.
    Sam looks around the room in a slightly panicked way. “Uh, I don’t know how to tell you this, but all these people are going to tell you that. That’s, like, pretty much the point of funerals.”
    The corner of my mouth lifts. Having them around makes everything a little better, even this.
    The funeral director comes in with another mountain of flowers, Mom trailing him. She’s crying, mascara bleeding down her face theatrically as she points to the spot where he’s allowed to put the arrangement. Then, seeing Philip’s body for about the tenth time, she lets out a small shriek and half-collapses into a chair, sobbing into her handkerchief. A small group of women rushes over to comfort her.
    “Is that your mother?” Daneca asks, fascinated.
    I’m not sure what to say. Mom’s putting on a show, but that doesn’t mean she’s not actually sad. It’s just that she isn’t letting her grief get in the way of her performance.
    “That’s our mom over there, all right,” a slightly bored voice says from behind me. “It’s kind of a miracle we weren’t knocking over drugstores in our diapers.”
    Daneca jumps like she’s been caught shoplifting.
    I don’t have to turn around. “Hello, Barron.”
    “Dani, right?” he says, giving Daneca a predatory smile as he takes a seat next to me. I find it a hopeful sign that he actually remembers her—maybe he’s been staying away from doing much memory work—but I also am suddenly conscious of the danger I have put Daneca and Sam in just by letting them come here. These people are not safe to be around.
    “I’m Sam Yu.” Sam extends his hand, leaning over so that he’s in front of Daneca.
    Barron shakes it. His suit is a lot nicer than mine, and his dark hair is clipped, short and tidy. He looks like the good boy he’s never been. “Any friends of my baby brother’s are friends of mine.”
    A minister walks up to the lectern off to one side and then says a couple of words to my mother. I don’t recognize him. Mom’s not exactly the religious type, but she hugs him like she’s ready to be baptized with the next bowl of water she comes across.
    A few moments later she yells loudly enough to be heard clearly above the pumped-in elevator music. I have no idea what set her off. “He was murdered! You tell them that! You put that in your sermon. You tell them there’s no justice in the world.”
    On cue, Zacharov sweeps into the room. He’s wearing another of his long black coats, this one draped over the shoulders of his suit. His fake Resurrection Diamond glints at his throat, the pin stabbed into the loop of his tie. His eyes are as hard and cold as the chip of glass.
    “I can’t believe he had the nerve to come here,” I say softly, standing. Barron touches my arm in warning.
    Beside Zacharov is Lila. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since our disastrous conversation in the hallway at Wallingford. Her hair is damp with rain and she’s all in black except for red lipstick so bright that the rest of her fades away. She’s all mouth.
    She sees me, and then her gaze goes to Barron. Stone-faced, she takes a seat.
    “Someone better tell that daughter of mine to pipe down,” Grandad says, pointing at my mother as if we might think he had some other daughter here. “I could hear