You make up the rear of the line, which makes it easier to step away from the rest of the group right at the front doors. Something makes you hesitate at the entryway, and - instead of following them into the house - you turn around, swallowing hard as you shove your hands into your pockets and march back down the driveway.
To your relief, you don't hear anyone call out to you as you walk away, instead listening to the sound of the front doors closing and the crunch of dry grass underfoot. It isn't until you make it to your car that you start shaking, and it isn't until you get into the driver's seat that you start crying.
Wiping away the few tears that started up, you jam your key into the slot and start the car, peeling off the side of the road and back towards your apartment several hours away. There's a hot, humid shame dripping off the back of your neck as you speed - you weren't able to do it. You weren't able to face your sister's killers. What kind of sibling are you?
It isn't for a few months that you hear about what happened to the people you left at that house out in the middle of nowhere. Despite police's best efforts, none of them are ever found, instead only their cars abandoned by the side of the road. You couldn't answer what happened to them either - whatever it was, you hope it was brief, though a deeper part of you hopes it wasn't.