If she had the presence of mind to consider it, Beverly would be grateful that they brought her inside to tell her this, and not just because they would all have had to fumble through signing the conversation otherwise. In that moment, she isn't thinking about where she is or the rules of this place, except to consider briefly that it's probably incredible that the two of them got back here safely. Keeping quiet here hasn't been particularly difficult for her, at least not as much so as it's been for some. Now, though, it wouldn't even occur to her to try to hold back the choked little sob that catches in her throat, her breath wavering as tears start to spill down her cheeks.

She still keeps herself small and contained, out of habit as much as anything else, but the relative isolation and safety help. Being around only people she trusts as much as Eddie and Jamie does, too, useless as she feels when they all have to shoulder this. It's still difficult, nearly impossible, to try to process the idea of Richie being gone, after all they've all been through. Their reactions make hers feel more present, though, and once she's started crying, she doesn't know how to stop.

Jamie is closer to her, so he's who she reaches for first, taking and squeezing his hand in some sort of solidarity. When she lets go, it's to cross the few steps between them and take a seat next to Eddie, close at his side on the step. "I'm sorry," she says to both of them through her tears, though she doesn't know why. For Richie, or because they were there, or maybe because she wasn't and couldn't do anything to try to help her friends, irrational as that may be. "Fuck. Richie."