Collier pauses and looks out at the crowd, his eyes settling on Louisa. He’s a hard act, Collier, but I have to give him credit at the moment. His sympathy seems sincere. She nods back at him.

“…and to his daughter, Anastasia.”

At the mention of her name, Anastasia wails again and keels over onto Lance. He manages to keep her upright in her chair for a few seconds, but then she topples forward onto the floor, pulling him along. He jumps to his feet a second later and struggles to get Anastasia to do the same. He can’t, though. He can’t get her to move a muscle. She’s out cold.

CHAPTER 29

Steven Collier actually asked if there was a doctor in the house. There were three. It took less than a minute for the white-haired cardiologist to revive Anastasia Rawlings. And then it took more than twenty for the plastic surgeon and the gastroenterologist to talk her up from the floor.

The Kydd and I worked on Louisa’s file while we waited. He began drafting our first round of discovery requests; we should serve them before the week is out. I made a couple of lists: one of the pretrial motions we’re likely to file and another of those we can expect from Geraldine. Harry folded his arms and promptly fell asleep, tilting toward Glen Powers every few minutes until Glen pushed him upright again.

When at last Anastasia was vertical, she keened intermittently as Steven Collier delivered a long-winded account of her father’s magnanimous life, stopping just short of nominating him for canonization. Paul Bagley’s tribute to Herb’s seemingly stellar career was shorter, but it was still too long. In contrast, the Reverend Burrows’s Scripture reading and prayer session were both mercifully brief. The crowd heaved a collective sigh of relief when the whole ordeal was over and then an audible groan when Collier approached the microphone yet again. Our fears were unfounded, though. He didn’t foist a second sermon on us. He just invited us all back to the house for lunch.

It’s almost one o’clock. We’re outside again, by the circular driveway, waiting for the less-than-happy valet to retrieve Harry’s Jeep. Louisa and her uniformed companions are waiting here too. Their driver must have taken a coffee break; the county van is nowhere in sight. The six of us seem to be the last of the stragglers.

Louisa watched in silence as the luxury cars departed, most of them probably destined for the mercy meal at her Easy Street antique. Glen Powers promised her he’d visit before he leaves the Cape and an elderly gentleman waved to her before climbing into a vintage gold Cadillac with a flying silver lady on its hood. A ’38, the Kydd informed us. Those two were the exceptions. The other guests said nothing at all to her; walked past as if she were invisible. More than once I saw Louisa’s eyes light up at the sight of a familiar face, only to dim again when the familiar face turned the other way.

Steven Collier, Anastasia, and Lance emerge from the club as a stretch limousine pulls up. I’m surprised; I had assumed they’d left ahead of the others. The driver opens the back door and stands at attention as Steven and Anastasia descend the steps and breeze past us without so much as a backward glance. Lance looks over his shoulder at us as he climbs in, though, his nonchalant expression suggesting he travels by limo all the time. He has a sizable lump on one side of his forehead, undoubtedly the result of his front-row fall. It’s the same color as his girlfriend’s fingernails.

Anastasia starts to follow him, but then hesitates. She turns, fixes her still-veiled gaze on Louisa, and marches back toward all of us. “Anastasia,” Collier says, reaching for her arm, “don’t.”

She pays him no mind, steamrolls in our direction, her veil fluttering in the breeze and her fists clenched. One of the matrons takes Louisa by the elbow and pulls her back a step. The other one moves forward, to the edge of the curb. “Hold it right there,” she says.

Anastasia stops and glares through her sheer black mantle, her nostrils flaring. “You people,” she says, “are not invited to the luncheon.”

“Damn,” Harry mutters, clutching the lapels of his suit coat. “Story of my life. All dressed up and no place to go.”

Louisa smiles at him and then turns to me. “I’m going,” she says matter-of-factly. “Aren’t you?”

She’s not, of course. Even Judge Long wouldn’t authorize a luncheon. His order allowed her to attend the service only.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I tell her.

“Me neither,” the Kydd adds, rubbing his hands together. “I’m starving.”

The matron at the curb turns, almost smiles at the Kydd, and then faces Anastasia again. “Sure we’re invited,” she says. “That’s why I signed up for this duty. Warden promised there’d be a good hot meal.”

“You’re not welcome in my father’s house,” Anastasia says. “None of you. If you show up, I swear I’ll call the po-lice.” She pronounces the word as if she’s a brother from the ’hood.

The matron folds her arms and laughs. “In certain circles, missy, we are the po-lice.”

“Never deal dialect with a prison guard,” Harry says.

“It’s time to go now.” Collier cups Anastasia’s elbow, the way he cupped mine in Louisa’s kitchen, but it doesn’t have the same impact. She doesn’t budge. “You have guests waiting,” he tries.

Guests or no guests, Anastasia stays put. It seems she plans to spend the rest of the week glaring at us.

Louisa stares back, unblinking. Her face is drawn and her dark eyes reveal the enormous toll the last four days have taken on her. The set of her jaw, though, tells me she doesn’t intend to fall apart now. She won’t give Anastasia that satisfaction.

The county van pulls up behind the limo, Harry’s Jeep following. “Oh, look,” Louisa says, sounding genuinely pleased. “It’s my ride.”

Harry, the Kydd, and I head for the Jeep. The matrons start for the van’s side door, Louisa between them. She turns and waves to all of us—even Anastasia—before she gets in. “I’m afraid I have to go now,” she says. “But I’ll see y’all at lunch.”

CHAPTER 30

It’s seven o’clock when I pull up to the cottage and discover I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is Luke’s truck is parked in the driveway. It’s not in the shop. The bad news is Luke’s truck is parked in the driveway. He’s not at school.

The two-day job at the garage turned out to take more than three. Luke has been having a great time all week. Turns out he really is a grease monkey. He thought they’d finish today, though, in time for him to make his afternoon classes. Looks like he thought wrong.

Harry’s Jeep is here too. He and Luke are back on either side of the coffee table when I reach the living room. They’re at it again. And again, Luke is exasperated. Harry sits frozen on the living room floor, no more animated than Rodin’s Thinker.

“Would you look at this guy?” Luke says when I join them. “He’s been sitting there like that for an hour.”

Harry tears his eyes from the chessboard and blinks at both of us, looking like he’s surprised to find us here in his chess studio. “I have? Well, then, I should take a bathroom break.”

“Good,” Luke answers. “I’ll rearrange the board a little while you’re gone.”

“No, you won’t,” Harry says as he gets to his feet. “I’d never expect it from a person of your caliber, Luke. So that would be cheating.”

“Oh, great.” Luke grabs the hair on top of his head with both hands as if he’s going to yank out clumps of it. “Just what we need. Another Harry-ism.”

Harry heads down the hallway, whistling, and Luke flops sideways onto the couch. I squeeze in to sit on the end, near his size-thirteen sneakers. Danny Boy joins us, always on the lookout for a group hug. His wet nose nudges my cheek and he paws my lap, as if he might have buried something there, while his tail thumps against Luke’s legs. I thump Luke’s legs too—hard. “Are you ever going back to school, my son?”