If it were my funeral, she’d do the same thing, Landry finds herself thinking. She’s so strong. Stronger than I could ever be.

Meredith would have been proud.

The minister steps back to the podium with a few final words, and at last it’s over. The crowd begins to move.

Someone touches Landry on the arm.

She looks up to see an attractive African-American woman flashing a badge.

“I’m Detective Crystal Burns,” she says, addressing all three of them. “I’m assuming you’re friends of Meredith’s?”

Caught off guard, Landry nods.

“Mind if I ask how you knew her?”

It’s Elena who answers promptly, “Only through the Internet.”

The detective pulls out a little notebook, and Landry grasps that this is not going to be a quick, simple conversation.

“Ladies,” she says, “I know this is not the best time or place to talk. I’d like to take down your names and ask you a few quick questions, and then maybe, if the three of you are staying in town, we can meet a little later to talk further?”

Landry quickly speaks for all of them: “Anything we can do to help, Detective.”

The bag containing Roger Lorton’s final effects has been lying on the floor beside the front door ever since the detective delivered it this morning.

It isn’t until later in the day—much later—that Sheri finally musters the strength to pick it up and carry it to the living room, trailed by the puppy’s jingling dog tags. She sits in a chair and Maggie settles at her feet. She’s been sticking close to Sheri’s side these past few days, since Roger’s murder. Every once in a while she looks up as if there’s something she wants Sheri to know.

You saw the person who killed him, didn’t you, girl?

But you can’t talk, and whoever did it is going to get away with it.

Sheri dully looks down at the bag on her lap, fighting back tears.

Finally, she opens it and looks inside.

The first thing she sees is the wedding ring, catching the sunlight that falls through the window. She pulls it out, swallowing hard, and slides it over her fingers one by one. It’s much too big for all but her thumb. She leaves it there for now. Maybe she can wear it on a chain around her neck.

The bag’s remaining contents are meager. One by one she removes a house key, a small plastic bottle of hand sanitizer Roger always carried, a pack of cigarettes, and a couple of folded bills. Roger never keeps cash in his wallet, always places it in a separate pocket. Years ago, when they first met, Sheri asked him why. He said it was so that if a pickpocket robbed him, he wouldn’t be left without both cash and credit cards.

Whoever stole his wallet was probably looking for quick cash, probably drug money. Why else would you mug someone?

Sheri finds scant satisfaction in knowing that the murderer came away with nothing but credit cards, none of which have been used since the wallet went missing and aren’t likely to be now. Oh, and Roger’s silver lighter, the one he always carried. It’s missing as well.

About to set the empty bag aside, she frowns and peers into the bottom. Something else is there, a small, dark triangular object.

Pulling it out, she sees that it’s a guitar pick.

Certainly not Roger’s.

How did it end up with his belongings?

It must have gotten mixed in with this stuff back at the morgue, maybe fallen out of someone’s pocket . . .

You’d think the authorities would be more careful when dealing with someone’s final effects.

Final . . .

Final.

With a sob, Sheri crumples the bag and tosses it onto the floor. The wedding ring goes with it, sliding off her thumb and rolling across the hardwoods.

With a whimper, Maggie lifts her nose from her paws and looks up at Sheri wearing a morose expression, as if she, too, is mourning.

Remember me when I am gone away . . .

Beck still can’t believe her mother is gone.

The funeral had been as torturous as she’d expected; struggling to maintain her composure, she’d been relieved the moment it ended.

But now she’s crying all over again as departing mourners take turns embracing her. No one seems to know quite what to say, other than to tell her how sorry they are, or how much they’re going to miss her mother, or how fitting the poem was, or how aptly the eulogy captured Mom.

The minister hadn’t known her very well, but he’d asked the family to help him prepare, taking notes as they shared anecdotes that had them laughing and crying, often simultaneously.

“Thank you,” Beck says, over and over, in response to the compliments about the service and the expressions of sympathy.

Some comments and questions are unexpectedly awkward: a few people want to know whether the police have a suspect yet.

She just shakes her head.

“Do you have any idea who might have done it?” a woman—a total stranger—asks her.

Beck just shakes her head as her uneasy gaze seeks and then settles on Detectives Burns and Schneider, across the room. She wasn’t at all surprised to see them here today and knows it’s not simply because they want to pay their respects to her mother.

They’re thinking the killer might be in the crowd.

Beck is thinking the same thing. When she allows the thought into her head, it’s all she can do not to flee for the nearest exit. The rest of the family appears to be feeling the same way.

And Dad . . . poor Dad.

Every time she glances at his face, she feels his pain.

She just hopes the detectives can, too; hopes they know he couldn’t possibly be responsible for what happened to Mom. No matter what statistics say . . .

No matter what I saw that day last month . . .

He didn’t do it. It’s that simple.

“Oh, Rebecca . . .” A childhood neighbor grabs onto her, hugging her hard. “I’m so sorry for all of you. Your poor father is going to be lost without your mother. Just make sure you take care of him.”

“Don’t worry,” she says grimly. “I will.”

Climbing into the backseat of the rental car after a long, silent walk from the funeral parlor to the back lot, Elena is still rattled by the brief encounter with the detective.

The woman took down basic information—their names, home addresses, ages—and arranged to meet them at their hotel later.

“I wonder if she’s doing that with everyone,” she says as Landry and Kay settle into their seats.

Neither of them asks who—or what—she’s talking about.

“I’m sure she is,” Landry says.

“Probably,” Kay agrees, pulling on her seat belt.

“We should stop off someplace on the way back to the hotel,” Elena suggests as Landry shifts the car into reverse, “and get something to eat.”

Something to drink is what she means. Her nerves are shot.

“Now?” Landry asks. “I thought we were planning to go out to dinner later.”

“We are, but we should get something now. Just, you know, something light. Especially since we have the detective coming to talk to us.”

“That might take a while. I could go for a cup of tea myself,” Kay agrees.

“I guess I wouldn’t mind some coffee,” Landry decides, and so it’s settled.

Coffee. Tea. Terrific.

Elena had been thinking along the lines of cocktails—a little more hair of the dog for her pounding head. The Bloody Mary on the plane had done nothing to take off the edge. And now they have to face a meeting with the detective investigating Meredith’s death . . .

I want a drink.

No. I need a drink.

“There were a couple of restaurants back toward the hotel,” Landry says. “I’ll head back that way.”

Elena settles back in the seat, resigned to a low-key coffee break—for now—and wishing she’d insisted on driving, or at least that she’d taken her own car. The parking lot has become crowded with moving people and cars, and Landry is taking her sweet old time maneuvering toward the exit.