Free The Visibles by Sara Shepard

center. There was a dog on the porch, too, eating straight from the hole in the bag. I heard the crick out back, rushing. It could never be clean enough to swim in. My stomach started to hurt.
    Dear Claire . Actually, a picture would have said way more than words.
    A girl was sitting on the porch swing. She had long brown hair, and her old jeans hung loosely on her hips. She narrowed her eyes when she saw us but made no effort to get up. “We can’t see the body until after three,” she shouted. “Just so you know.”
    My father opened his door and climbed out. “You remember Samantha, don’t you, Summer? She’s Skip’s sister’s kid’s kid. Your second cousin.”
    “My name isn’t Samantha anymore.” The girl didn’t move. “It’s Sword now.”
    “Ah. Well. Hello, Sword.” My father, surprisingly, didn’t miss a beat.
    Samantha—Sword—snorted. My father told me on the way here that Samantha’s parents died in a fire nine months ago, and she’d been living here with my now-dead grandmother. Stella, my great-aunt, lived here, too, having moved from her own house into this one when my grandmother’s health began to decline. This, at least, was what Stella told us on the phone a few months ago, when she suggested that my father come see my grandmother before she passed. But my father didn’t. This was the first time he’d been back here in years.
    My father took a few steps away from the car, squinting into the backyard. “Where’s the boat?”
    “Ruth sold it,” Samantha yelled, starting to swing.
    He frowned. “When?”
    “I don’t know. When I came here, it was gone. She said she sold it to spite you.” Samantha smiled greedily. I expected her teeth to be gnarled, yellow, overlapping, but they were beautifully straight and white.
    My father ran his hand through his hair. “Huh.”
    The screen door slammed, and an older woman tumbled out. Her long reddish hair curled around her head, and she wore cat-eye glasses. “Ritchie!” She had loose jiggle on her upper arms and smeared, orange-pink lipstick. “It’s been…my God. How long?”
    “I don’t know, Stella,” my father answered, hugging her. “Maybe ten years?”
    Stella hit him—hard. “You’re shitting me.”
    “Nope.”
    Samantha swung violently, bumping the porch rail with her feet.
    “And who are these two?” Stella turned her overmagnified eyes to me. “This your girlfriend?” She moved to Steven. “Who’s this big strapping gentleman? You old enough to date, honey? ’Cause if so—”
    “We’re his kids, ” I gasped.
    Stella sidled very close to us. She smelled not how I thought a great-aunt would—like urine and cats and menthol—but like peanut butter cookies. “I know that, honey. I know.”
    “It’s very nice to see you both,” my father said. “I haven’t seen Samantha—sorry, Sword —since she was a baby, I think.”
    Stella rolled her eyes. “Sword! Now, what kind of name is Sword for a girl?” She looked over her shoulder at Samantha. “If you’re going to change it, change it to Trixie. Or Marilyn, after Marilyn Monroe.”
    “You wouldn’t understand,” Samantha muttered.
    “Where’s Petey?” my father asked. “Is he here yet?”
    “He’s around here somewhere.” Stella pulled out a cigarette. Her cat-eye glasses slid down her nose. She looked at my father. “Your crazy mother, huh? Had to go and die on us.”
    “That’s one way to put it,” Steven mumbled.
    “And did you hear the latest?” Stella shook her head. “The Department of Veterans’ Affairs gave her a stipend for her funeral, for being in the Army Nurse Corps, you know. And you know what she did? She spent every penny. Didn’t think, Gee, my sister could use that money to fix up the house, did she? Nope. Had to buy the best casket and everything. Satin-lined!”
    “You’re kidding,” my father said.
    “Apparently she made these arrangements years ago. So the money had been spent all this time and we