“I’ll miss you,” he says as she starts to lift her bag up over a puddle by the curb. “And Landry—be careful.”

“It’s okay. I’ve got it. It’s not heavy.”

“I don’t mean with the bag.”

For a moment their eyes connect. “I know,” she tells him.

He’s still worried that what happened to Meredith is no random crime. Yet there’s been nothing in the news reports to suggest otherwise. The police are still investigating. No mention of questioning suspects or anything suggesting that an arrest might be imminent.

Whoever killed Meredith is still, presumably, out there somewhere.

Rob doesn’t like that.

She doesn’t like it either, but . . .

It has nothing to do with her. It doesn’t make her less safe.

Chin up. Strength training.

“I’ll be fine,” she assures Rob, “and the next thing we know, you’ll be picking me up right here. I’ll only be gone for two days. Well, less than that. Really, it’s just a matter of hours, when you think about it.”

But a lot can happen in a matter of hours.

A lot can happen in a matter of minutes, in a matter of seconds.

Suddenly, it all seems so . . . precarious.

Why on earth is she leaving her husband and children to spend a weekend with a bunch of strangers in the wake of a murder?

Rob looks at his watch. “You’d better get going. I love you, Babe.”

“I love you, too.” Landry turns away quickly so that he won’t see the uncertainty—or the tears—in her eyes.

Kay had left home early—much earlier than necessary—in the hope that there wouldn’t be much traffic heading south out of Indianapolis on Interstate 74 at this hour on a Saturday morning.

She should have known better. This was a busy corridor at any hour on any day of the week. Headlights constantly bear down in her rearview mirror; taillights whiz past at dizzying velocity.

How do they all drive so fast?

Glancing at the dashboard, she’s astonished to see the speedometer hovering at forty-two miles per hour.

Maybe the better question would be why are you driving so slowly?

It felt as though she was going the speed limit, if not above.

She presses the gas pedal.

The needle goes up, up, up . . .

Now it feels as though the car is careening dangerously.

Oops. She hits the brake.

Behind her a car honks. Its headlights swerve out around her, and even in the darkness she sees the silhouetted driver giving her the finger.

“What?” she shouts. “What do you want from me?”

Dammit, dammit, dammit.

She used to be such a competent driver, unfazed by darkness or traffic or weather. She drove to work in Terre Haute and regularly transported her mother to and from the specialist’s office up in Chicago without batting an eye.

Now her eyesight is worse, thanks to advancing age. All these headaches . . . she probably needs glasses for distance, too, not just for reading.

Plus—because she didn’t sleep a wink last night, thinking about Meredith and about the weekend ahead—her nerves are shot and her reflexes are slow.

But you’d better get your act together. Now is not a good time to fall apart.

In the rearview mirror Kay sees an unbroken string of headlights in the left lane and the glare of a semi bearing down behind her in the right.

Her hands tighten on the wheel. She holds her breath as the lights come closer, blinding her. The truck is about to barrel into her car . . .

But then the lights swoop away as the driver cuts off someone in the left lane to get out around her.

More angry horns, more rude gestures.

This is a mistake. She’s much too exhausted, too frazzled, to be driving. She’s risking her life to go to a funeral.

She’d told BamaBelle—Landry—that it was only a couple of hours away, as if it were no big deal to get behind the wheel and hit the highway.

It’s not as if she’s never done it before. She spent all those years commuting a full hour in each direction from the western suburbs to the prison, sometimes in harsh winter blizzards or tornado weather.

The drive to Ohio was the least of her worries—at that point, anyway, when she was on the phone with Landry.

She was far more concerned with the prospect of coming face-to-face with BamaBelle and Elena, and whoever else might show up in Cincinnati. Concerned . . . but not enough to say no.

That sweet southern drawl was so convincing.

And Landry’s right: they do owe it to Meredith.

Oh, Meredith . . .

Tears sting Kay’s eyes, blurring the string of taillights through the windshield.

She wipes them away, and notices the first tints of pink sky, low above the flat horizon.

Okay. It’s going to be okay. It’s only one day. Twenty-four hours from now she’ll be heading in the opposite direction. The nightmare of Meredith’s funeral will be behind her.

She reserved a room at the same hotel where Landry and Elena are staying, about a mile away from the funeral home where Meredith’s service is being held. She prepaid the reservation on her credit card, even, because the rate was considerably cheaper that way and frugality is a hard habit to break.

Mother always said not to waste dollars or even pennies today because you might need them tomorrow. She lived that rule to her dying day. Never treated herself, let alone her daughter, to a vacation or even dinner in a nice restaurant. Never spent money on anything but cigarettes. She didn’t consider that a waste.

As for Kay . . .

God knows she can well afford to squander a couple hundred bucks if it turns out the others don’t like her in person.

But she really hopes that they do. Desperately hopes so.

That’s why you’re going, isn’t it? It’s why you said yes when you meant no. Because the thought of friends—seeing friends, friends who care . . .

For the past few days the idea of coming face-to-face with her fellow bloggers seemed a lot less threatening than she’d imagined. Maybe because she misses Meredith so much, and needs to fill the aching void.

There’s alone, and then there’s lonely. One is safe and comfortable; the other . . .

Well, it never bothered her so much before. But the last few days haven’t been easy. She keeps thinking of Meredith, remembering Meredith, knowing what Meredith would want—expect—her to do.

She was such a good person. So strong. So much stronger than she ever knew.

She was always making self-deprecating comments in her blog, masking her insecurities behind humor. She didn’t allow herself to crawl into a hole and hide, not even in the face of the worst news imaginable.

If I could just be more like her . . .

But this is a start.

She has crawled out of her hole. It’s the right thing to do, the smart thing to do, and what’s the worst that can happen?

When the doorman calls up to tell her she has a visitor, Jaycee has just thrown on a pair of yoga pants, a tank top, and of course her blond wig. She doesn’t wear it around the apartment when she’s home alone, but Beatrice, her cleaning lady, comes on Saturday mornings.

Usually not until later, though. Jaycee was about to sit down with her first cup of coffee and her laptop to enjoy a few moments’ peace.

“Who is it?” she asks Mike, the doorman.

“It’s Mr. Wallace.”

Cory. Of course. Always Cory.

She tells the doorman to let him up, then opens the laptop to quickly see if there were any overnight developments on Meredith’s murder.

Nothing, other than a death notice in a small suburban Ohio newspaper, with mention of today’s memorial service.

By now Jaycee knows that the others are either in Cincinnati or on their way: Landry, Elena, and A-Okay.

She got Landry’s e-mail with all the arrangements—I’m cc’ing you just in case you can join us last minute, Jaycee!—and knows they’re staying in a hotel out where Meredith lives.