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“No, no. It’s nothing like that.”
Still looking dubious, Glenda had said, “If you change your mind, I only need a moment’s notice. Otherwise, I’ll see you back at the house, say sixish? I’m sick of all those casseroles people have brought, so I’ll pick up something for our dinner. What would rev up your appetite?”
Elle had been waiting for an opening like that. She’d placed her hand on her friend’s arm. “Thank you, but I don’t need you to stay over again tonight.”
Glenda had squinted one eye and appraised Elle with the shrewdness of a diamond merchant. “Don’t need me to or don’t want me to?”
“Please understand. Since the shooting, I’ve been surrounded by people. Well-meaning, caring, compassionate people, and I’m so grateful for their many kindnesses. But I haven’t had any time alone.”
“You mean time alone with Charlie,” Glenda had said softly. “I get it.” She placed her hand on top of Elle’s where it rested on her arm. “Say the word. You know I’ll come running.”
Her friend had been indispensable, but Elle was desperate to be by herself in her house among Charlie’s things, surrounded by his spirit. She wanted and needed to reminisce in solitude, to sob without courteous restraint, to grieve in private.
Sandwiched between her parents and Glenda in the front pew of the chapel, she had endured her son’s funeral with fragile dignity. It had been a beautiful service.
But the loveliness of the music, the minister’s message of hope, and the plethora of flowers banking the small casket didn’t buffer the fact that her baby was sealed inside it, that she would never again experience his smiles and tears, his scent, the sound of his unintelligible chatter, the bubbling joy of his laughter, the weight and warmth of his body against hers.
Glenda had made all the arrangements for the catered reception following the interment. Elle’s house had been abounding in sympathy, almost to a level that had made her claustrophobic. She’d gotten through it.
She’d even withstood the stilted conversation with her ex, Jeff, and his new wife, Lesley, whose short, tight black dress wrapped her distended abdomen like a bandage, making it all the more prominent.
Elle hadn’t wanted to invite them to the funeral, but when Glenda had told her that Jeff had called to ask if they would be welcome, Elle had said, “Of course.” She didn’t care enough about his marriage and pending fatherhood to have made an issue over their attendance. If she had, she’d have looked peevish.
He’d seemed ill at ease when he and Lesley had made their way over to her and extended condolences. He’d sipped nervously at a glass of scotch as Lesley had looked at Elle with soulful eyes and said, “The heartbreak you must be suffering.” As she ran a caressing hand over her pregnant belly, she’d made atsking sound. “I just can’t imagine losing this little one.”
Before Elle could respond, Jeff had offered to bring her a glass of wine, and when she’d declined, he’d given her an awkward hug. She’d thanked them for coming. As Lesley teetered away on her stilettos, clinging possessively to Jeff’s arm, Glenda had rolled her eyes at Elle and poked her finger down her throat.
As people had begun to leave, she’d left Glenda to see them off while she withdrew to bid goodbye to her agent, Laura, who’d said, “Be kind to yourself. Don’t rush the grieving process. Don’t worry about the book.”
“I confess that it’s been the last thing on my mind.”
“The publishing house understands and supports you one hundred percent. I’ll be calling frequently to check on you.”
Her parents had left the next morning. Despite their offer to remain for a few more days, she’d urged them to get back to their two cats, whom they’d left alone. She’d been secretly relieved to wave them off. They weren’t intentionally demanding, but keeping them content had required energy she didn’t have.
Also, deep down, she knew they had never fully endorsed her decision to have Charlie.
When she’d told them of her intentions, her mother had furrowed her brow. “Are you sure you want to do this, Elle? Under the circumstances?”
The question had been posed in an undertone, as though the circumstances were so unsavory she didn’t dare speak of them out loud for fear of their being overheard.
Now she said aloud, “I wouldn’t have missed him for the world, Mother.” With the same amount of emphasis, she switched off her car and slammed the door shut after she got out.
Inside the precinct, she went through security screening. Compton had told her that she and Detective Perkins could be found on the third floor. The elevator emptied her into a serviceable but unattractive lobby, where a female deputy was seated at a desk.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m Elle Portman, here to see Detectives Compton and Perkins.”
“They’re with someone else right now, but I’ll let them know you’re here. Go down this hall,” she said, pointing. “At the dead end, take a right. They’re in room three-oh-six. Have a seat in the hall, and they’ll be with you shortly.”
“Thank you.”
As Elle turned away, the woman said, “I’m very sorry for your loss, Ms. Portman.”
Elle gave her a weak smile of thanks and started down the long hallway. At the dead end, she turned right and then came to a halt so abruptly she could have walked into an invisible wall.
She recognized him instantly. He was seated in a chair about midway down the hallway. His knees and feet were widespread, his head bent low. He was staring at the floor.
