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My second husband’s funeral falls on the day when the weather finally breaks for the first time. People don shorts to jog down Blue Hill’s main drag. They troll plant nurseries and sit outside for brunch. It’s a day to have a picnic, not to wear an itchy black dress and drive to a dark, stuffy church to stare at an empty casket that’s supposed to symbolize a death vessel for my dead husband. We can’t put hisrealbody in there yet because the coroner hasn’t finished his autopsy investigation.
“Are we ready?” Willa asks us as we pull into the parking lot of the church.
In the back seat, my daughters grumble. Neither has spoken since we got in the car. Are they on something? Did Raina sneak them pills? Maybe I shouldn’t have let Raina see Sienna that morning Willa arrived. I still don’t understand why Raina lied to me about being with Sienna when I broke the news about Greg.
I open the door and step out. As I swing my legs toward the pavement, I realize I’ve got a black stiletto on one foot and a brown one on the other. Willa seems to notice at the same time, and shequickly whips off her shoes and hands them to me. “Here. Take mine. We’re the same size.”
I shake my head. “Stop. It doesn’t matter.”
“I could give a shit about whether my shoes match. Honestly.”
I flinch, taking the statement way too personally—like Willa doesn’t give a shit if her shoes match because she doesn’t give a shit aboutGreg.I could tell Greg found her toughness off-putting, and Willa thought he cared too much about what people thought. When I first introduced Greg to Willa, on a warm day when we’d visited her in California, Willa challenged Greg to a race on the beach, and he declined.
“Come on,” Willa chided him. “Are you afraid I’m going to beat you?” She was just playing, but Greg gave her kind of a sharp look, and the mood just... deflated. Conversely, there was a moment at our rehearsal dinner when Willa rolled her eyes when Greg name-dropped that he was buddies with one of the wealthiest CEOs in Pittsburgh... and Gregnoticedthe eye roll, and things got tense pretty fast. It was obvious they only stomached one another out of their affection for me.
I stuff my feet into her shoes. It seems so bizarre, the need for me to look good going to afuneral.But people are going to be watching me. They’re going to see how I behave. They’re going to watch for a breakdown. More than a few people thinkIam Greg’s murderer. It’s easy to read between the lines on Facebook. A few times, I’ve wanted to comment on the posts, sometimes saying things likeIt wasn’t me, I swear!Or maybeYes, it WAS me—you bitches figured it out!
The feelings that have come over me in the past few days are surprising. I’m not sure who I am anymore. All I want to do is throw a big middle finger in everyone’s faces.
The church lawn is eerily quiet; we’ve gotten here a little late. Behind us, another car rumbles up. I turn, thinking it’s our father—he said he’d meet us in the parking lot—but a young couple climbs out of a white Subaru SUV instead. The woman wears a slightlytoo-long black dress and clunky heels and holds a baby with bright blue eyes that inexplicably strike a chord deep inside me. Her husband, a huge, shaved-headed dead ringer for Dwayne Johnson, takes her arm. As the woman raises her head and meets my gaze, I feel a ripple of memory, recalling the last time I saw Laura Apatrea: at the benefit, when she’d spilled my drink.
The man notices me and untangles his arm from Laura’s. “Kit, right?” he asks, walking toward Willa and me. His face is open and kind, and his voice is higher than I expected.
I nod, shakily. He offers a hand. “Ollie Apatrea. I’m part of the Blue Hill precinct. I just wanted to let you know that I’m so, so sorry for your loss.”
“Oh.” I limply pump Ollie’s firm, warm hand. I hadn’t known Laura’s husband was a cop. “I met with someone else when I was in there—Reardon?”
“Yep. Detective Reardon’s the best in the business—he’s going to figure this out for you.” Then he glances at my sister. “Ollie,” he says, offering his hand.
Willa fumbles awkwardly. “Kit’s sister, Willa. Hi.”
Ollie squints. “Do we know each other?”
“I don’t think so,” Willa says tightly, doing a half-turn away from him.
Ollie lingers on her for a beat and then turns back to me. “If he’s ever busy, let me give you my card.” He hands a card to me, holding my gaze. “This is a real shock for all of us. Everyone at the station is trying to pitch in.”
“Oh.” I smile shakily. “Well, thanks.” Then I nod to Laura. “Nice to see you again.”
She gives me a mousy smile in return. Ollie’s gaze remains on me for a beat longer, and then they both turn for the church. I pinch the business card between my thumb and forefinger until it bends. That’s one thing I’ll say about the Blue Hill PD—everyone has been over-the-top friendly.
Willa watches them as they walk up the steps. “How do they know Greg?”
“Laura was one of Greg’s nurses.”
“Cute kid, but couldn’t she have found a babysitter?”
I shrug. What do I care if a baby cries through the service?
We step into the lobby, which is empty because the service is about to start—it’s possible everyone was waiting for us. The double doors of the church’s main hall are flung open, and every pew is stuffed with people. Dr. Cho from cardiology. Dr. Rosenstein, the hospital chief—and a huge donor to Aldrich University. A horde of doctors’ wives sit together, their eyes sharp and searching. Miles, Greg’s best man at our wedding, stares at me like he’s seen a ghost. Kristin, the sweet, sensible girlfriend my dad unexpectedly broke up with that previous August, sits in a back pew. Dozens of pretty women I don’t recognize are here, too. I wonder if one of them is Lolita. I wonder if one of them is Greg’s killer.
Faces turn when they see us and, just as I predicted, the farce begins. There are fake smiles all around. Murmurs of condolences. Pitying looks. I smile back, but in my head, I’m slapping cheeks, throwing drinks in faces. It’s so obvious some of these people are here just for the spectacle of it all. I search the crowd, finding Greg’s only living family, a dotty, out-of-touch great-aunt named Florence. Aunt Florence looks at me with pity, so I shoot her my only genuine smile so far today.
Willa touches my forearm. “Are you okay?”
“What doyouthink?” I whisper back.
“Do you want to leave?”
