“My father loved all of you,” he said. He gripped the side of the lectern momentarily, as if holding himself up, then he took a breath and looked up, meeting the collective gaze of the congregation. “I know that sounds cliché. How could one person love hundreds of people?” He shook his head. “Not many can. But as you know, my father was not average. He loved all of you. He truly did. He saw you for who you were, not who he expected you to be. He didn’t always understand everyone. He was old-fashioned in many ways. Yet he loved everyone with an open heart, sometimes to his detriment.”

Shane’s eyes had been roaming the mourners, but right then they stopped on my face. He paused. A long pause.

I felt Grady and Erin shift uncomfortably on either side of me. The pause went on. I tried to look down, but Shane still wasn’t talking. When I looked up, his eyes were still on me. A few people started to glance between Shane and myself. I felt a blush creeping from my toes up to my face. I wanted to shout, What? Are you talking about Sam? Are you implying that Forester’s love for Sam was to his detriment? I don’t know! I don’t know anything!

I almost let my mouth fall open to shout.

And then, as if giving me a reprieve, Shane moved on. He talked about his dad’s upbringing in a town outside New Orleans. He pointed out some of his relatives present in the church, and he talked about Forester’s charity work. He talked about how Forester had started Pickett Enterprises and thanked people-including Walt Tenning and Chaz Graydon-who had helped make the company a success.

I had been keeping my gaze squarely in my lap, not wanting to draw Shane’s gaze again, but I glanced up when he mentioned Walt and Chaz. Walt acknowledged Shane’s words with a barely perceptible bow of his domed head. Chaz, a flashy guy in his late forties, who wore cuff links the size of quarters and a huge silver watch, nodded appreciatively and glanced around the church as if accepting applause.

Shane thanked Annette for years of service to his father. He thanked his dad’s close friends whom he’d known since his early days in Chicago.

Then Shane took a deep breath and stared upward toward the yellow bands of light streaming through the high, stained-glass windows. “My father lived his life in a grand way. He squeezed every bit of joy out of it. And he didn’t shy away from pain because he knew that pain was only a path to more joy. I hope we can learn from him. I hope…”

Shane’s words died away here, and he began to cry. Softly at first, almost soundlessly, but then a hand covered his eyes, his shoulders hunched and Shane Pickett began to sob like a lost little boy.

The sniffles began to pick up throughout the church. The sounds of soft weeping joined that of Shane’s.

“Thank you,” he said, finally getting himself together. “Thank you so very much.”

He raised his head, and just then the sound of a lone bagpiper crept into the church, its soulful tone curling through the congregation. Everyone turned. At the back of the church, on the second landing, stood the bagpiper, his instrument gaining volume, gaining strength.

Another bagpiper stepped from the shadows and joined him. Then another…and another…and another…until twelve bagpipers stood, their instruments joining one somber note that twisted into a single song-” Amazing Grace.” Forester’s favorite.

It seemed everyone in the church began to cry then. I watched in awe as Grady wiped a tear from his eye, and Q cried openly without bothering to cover his face. I let myself cry too, feeling the sensation of finality settling into my bones. Goodbye, Forester.

We walked from the church into a gorgeously sunny fall afternoon, a steep contrast to the bleakness everyone felt. The reporters still reported and the cameras still rolled, but they weren’t hounding people now. Mourners stood in groups on the church steps, unable to let go of the last traces of Forester.

I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned. “Mom!”

“Hi, Boo.” She and her husband, Spence, both hugged me.

“I didn’t realize you were coming,” I said.

I had introduced Forester to my mom and Spence, and she’d gotten him to donate to a charity she’d started called the Victoria Project, an organization that helped widowed women with children.

“We wouldn’t have missed it,” Spence said. He was a pleasant-looking man with brown hair streaked with white. It fell longer on the sides to compensate for the slight balding up top. He wore a blue jacket and tie over slacks. He rarely wore a suit. His light-blue eyes, his most striking feature, looked into mine. “How are you holding up?”

“Hanging in there,” I said.

Annette came up to us. “We’re having a reception at the Deer Path Inn.”

“Thank you,” I said, but I wondered at her use of the word we. I’d never heard her use that word when referring to Forester or his family. She’d always said things like, Mr. Pickett would like you to join him at his home. But then, the only Mr. Pickett around now was Shane.

As if he’d heard my thoughts, Shane appeared, his lips pursed. Behind him were Walt Tenning, who looked typically unflappable, and Chaz Graydon, who stood with his meaty arms crossed over his chest, the sun glinting off his watch face.

“Izzy,” Shane said. “We need to talk to you.”

I followed Forester’s son and his two closest advisers to the lawn at the side of the church, away from the media. My high heels sank into the grass, forcing me to walk unsteadily on tiptoe. I saw Tanner on the steps of the church. He was surrounded by Baltimore & Brown people, but his eyes were on me. Finally, when it seemed as if we were clear of the reporters, Shane and the others stopped. They turned to face me.

“You did a very nice job in there,” I said to Shane.

He seemed to have lost the hostile attitude. Instead of staring me down, his eyes glistened with tears now. “Thanks. Thanks a lot. It was tough.” He shook his head. “It’s just hard to believe.”

“I know. My father died when I was young, and sometimes I still can’t believe it.”

Chaz cleared his throat, as if he’d had enough of all this talk about dead fathers.

“Izzy, we need to talk to you about Sam,” Walt said. “What he’s done is an egregious act.”

“We need to know what you know,” Chaz said in his deep, gruff voice.

“Everyone needs to know what I know. And I know precisely nothing. I’ve discussed this with the Chicago PD. I’ve discussed this with the FBI, and I’ve told them all the truth-I have no idea where Sam is or why those shares are missing.”

“We’ve talked to the authorities, as well,” Walt said, “and we’re not convinced they’re efficient enough. This matter needs to be concluded quickly. Forester’s estate can’t be administered until all the property is accounted for and, ultimately, that could affect the running of Pickett Enterprises and, of course, Shane’s inheritance.”

Yeah, I thought. And now Shane is your puppet with Forester gone. Is that what you wanted all along? I studied the men. Shane looked to be in pain. Chaz looked like a pissed-off bulldog ready to snarl and bite. Walt bore his usual concerned look.

“I’ll do whatever I can to help the investigation along,” I said. “I want to get Forester’s estate in order, too. I still consider him my main client, and as such I’ll do everything I can to serve him well.”

“Don’t be so sure about that client thing,” Chaz said.

“Excuse me?”

Walt threw Chaz a glance, and he went quiet.

“Keep us apprised if you learn anything,” Walt said. “Anything at all.”

“Of course. I have to tell you that, although it looks bad, I just keep returning to the thought that Sam wouldn’t do anything that would have harmed Forester or his estate.”

Chaz scoffed. “For all we know, sweetheart, he killed him.”