Having never had children—or, really, even known them in the course of her adult life—Kay has nothing to contribute in that regard. But lack of conversational connection isn’t her sole reason for keeping quiet. Mostly, she’s preoccupied with what lies ahead.

In her opinion, Landry and Elena aren’t quite mindful enough of the reason they’re all here: to say good-bye to Meredith.

The solemn nature of the occasion does seem to sink in as they walk toward the funeral home, though, as the other women fall silent at last.

That Meredith left behind dozens—no, hundreds—of people who loved her is obvious the moment they cross the threshold into the large chapel adjacent to the foyer. An endless line snakes through the hushed room, weaving up and down rows of folding chairs.

She, Elena, and Landry join the mourners gradually making their way up to the bereaved family standing beside the large urn that holds Meredith’s remains.

As they await their turn, Kay studies the Heywoods.

She’s heard so much about them over the years that it’s easy for her to tell them apart. Gray-haired Hank, of course, is obviously Meredith’s husband. But Kay can easily see which of the three young women is her daughter—Beck looks a lot like her mother.

She can tell the two daughters-in-law apart, too: Teddy’s wife, Sue, is pregnant; Neal’s wife, Kelly, is the redhead.

As for the brothers, they look quite a bit like each other and their father, but Kay remembers that Neal, the middle son, is the tallest one in the family, much to his older brother’s frustration when they were growing up. Meredith blogged about that once.

By default, the fourth man in the family—the serious-looking bearded fellow—would have to be Meredith’s son-in-law, Keith.

Only the grandchildren—her beloved “stinkerdoodles”—are missing.

So these are the people Meredith lived for, the people she couldn’t bear the thought of “abandoning,” as she put it.

It’s not that I don’t think they’ll survive without me, Meredith wrote to her on the day they both confessed that their illnesses had progressed. In fact, financially, they’ll be better off, that’s for sure. I’m like George Bailey.

Kay didn’t understand that reference, not even after she quickly Googled the name and found that George Bailey was a character in the old movie It’s a Wonderful Life. She’s never seen it. She isn’t big on movies; hasn’t caught a film or even turned on the television in years.

When she asked Meredith what she meant by the comment, Meredith explained that the plot revolves around a character, George Bailey, who winds up destitute, other than a life insurance policy.

“But he’s the richest man in town in the end, of course,” Meredith said, “because he had friends, so many friends who loved him.”

As did Meredith.

The room is warm and crowded, the air thickly scented with the perfume of hundreds of women and all those funeral flowers. They’re everywhere, in vases and baskets and wreaths surrounding the urn and spilling over into the seating area—further testimony to just how much Meredith meant to so many.

Kay thinks of her own solitary life.

Mother’s raspy voice echoes in her head: It’s not better to have loved and lost . . . If you don’t love, you can’t lose.

No. That isn’t the case at all, Kay thinks, inching forward with the line of mourners waiting to connect with the Heywood family.

You were wrong, Mother. As wrong about that as you were about everything else.

When it’s her turn to meet the Heywoods, she moves robotically down the line with Landry and Elena, introducing herself as one of Meredith’s blogger friends.

“You all meant so much to Mom.” Meredith’s daughter clasps her hand. “She was always telling us about you.”

“She talked about all of you, too,” Kay tells her. “She was so proud of you. She told me all about the beautiful Mother’s Day party you all had a few weeks ago. She even e-mailed me pictures, and she said you made her favorite cheesecake . . .”

“Actually, I wound up buying it,” Rebecca Heywood replies with a sad smile. “I wish I’d had a chance to make it for her that day.”

“I’m sure it didn’t matter. What mattered to her was that you were all there with her. That’s what she remembered.”

And then the person behind her is reaching for Rebecca’s hand and it’s time for Kay to move on.

The rest of it—everything else she’d wanted to tell Meredith’s family—will have to be left unsaid.

Jaycee’s cell phone buzzes in her oversized bag on the passenger’s seat of the rental car as she pulls into the parking lot behind McGraw’s Funeral Home. She reaches inside without looking at it and turns it off. Whoever it is—probably Cory—can wait. The service was scheduled to start ten minutes ago. She wanted to be late—but not any later than this.

Clearly, Meredith was as popular with her real-life friends as she was with the online group. Every spot in the lot is taken.

Jaycee can’t help but flash back to another funeral in another time, another place. Empty parking lot, with only herself and the pastor to stand beside her grandmother’s simple pinewood casket.

She sobbed through that ceremony. Not because her grandmother was dead—she’d hated her. Not because she was pregnant, either. But because Steven Petersen—her one true friend, the love of her life—hadn’t had the decency to show up. He could have come for her sake, not for her grandmother’s; Steve had hated her, too.

That was the last time she allowed herself to shed tears in public. It was the last time she ever lost someone who truly mattered.

Steve.

After all they’d been through together . . .

No. Don’t think about that now.

Thoughts of Steve always lead to thoughts of her . . .

Pushing the blood-drenched memories from her mind, Jaycee follows the signs and drives around the ugly yellow brick building to the overflow lot. The gravel patch there is nearly full of cars. On the far end, across from the last couple of empty spaces, she spots the sedan Landry rented at the airport.

Obviously, she, too, arrived late—despite her flight having landed with plenty of time to spare. Did Landry also dawdle in her hotel room, having second thoughts about showing her face here today?

In the end, Jaycee opted to come. The funeral, after all, is why she flew to Ohio in the first place this morning—aside from needing a convenient escape hatch.

She wasn’t going to allow herself to come all this way without paying her last respects to one of the few friends she had left in this world.

She pulls into a spot across from Landry’s rental, turns off the engine, and glances into the rearview mirror. Between her broad-brimmed black hat and oversized sunglasses, only her mouth, nose, and jaw are visible. No one is going to recognize her if she slips quietly into the back and then leaves early.

Her heels poke into the gravel as she steps out of the car. It’s slow going until she reaches the pavement. Now her pace is steadier, heels tapping along briskly. As she makes her way toward the entrance, she spots a black Crown Victoria—an unmarked cop car?

Of course.

Meredith was murdered. It would make sense that there would be a police presence at the service today. They’ll be watching the crowd carefully, looking for suspicious behavior, perhaps pulling people aside for questioning—a thought that’s almost enough to send Jaycee straight back to her car.

Before she can turn around, the door opens and a man in a dark suit beckons to her. The funeral director, she realizes. He’s been watching her approach through the glass panel. There’s nothing she can do but walk up the steps and cross the threshold.

“In there,” the man whispers, gesturing at a pair of closed doors.

She nods her thanks and crosses the foyer, conscious of his eyes on her. Reaching for the knob on the right, she gives it a gentle tug. Both doors swing open, but the one on the left quickly closes again with a loud sound before she can catch it.