Page 13

Rowan

Natalie is fidgety as we creep toward the lawn. And I get it. This line is atrocious. Even after we make it outside, there are still a hundred people in front of us, chatting in low, respectful voices.

A gleaming hearse waits nearby, the casket inside. There’s an ocean of flowers covering its lid.

“My feet are killing me,” I whisper in a feeble attempt to commiserate with my daughter.

“It’s those shoes,” she points out. “You should just give them to me.”

I snort. “Fine. But you can’t have that blouse. It’s dry-clean only.” And black is too severe on her anyway.

She glances down at it and looks annoyed. “Can we get take-out sushi tonight?”

“Heck yes. We deserve all the sushi.”

“Cool.” She takes a step back from me and pulls her phone out of her bag, but only a few inches. She peeps at the screen and then zips her bag shut again.

She’s on that thing so much I’m honestly surprised she didn’t whip it out during the service.

The line moves forward, and we’re suddenly in front of a display of framed remembrances of Tim. There are photos, articles, and awards.

“So this is him,” Natalie says under her breath, bending close for a look at the pictures. “He looks, um...” She grasps for something nice to say. “Smart.”

“He was,” I quietly agree. Someone has done an impressive job commemorating his life. There are birthday party photos, with an apple-cheeked Tim blowing out four candles on a cake. There’s a photo of Tim as a schoolboy. Maybe he’s six or seven, but he’s already wearing a button-down shirt. No cuff links yet, though.

I peer at the earliest photo. A pair of smiling adults are cradling a newborn, although you can’t really see his face. Then I see something in the picture’s background that startles me.

“What?” Natalie asks. “You’re holding up the line.”

“Look,” I whisper, pointing at the photo. “The banner. What does that say?”

Natalie leans in and squints. “ ‘Adoption Day! Welcome Home...’ The rest is cropped out.”

We move forward. “He never told me he was adopted,” I whisper.

“Oh,” my daughter says with a shrug.

The line moves again, and now we’re in front of a bunch of newspaper clippings. His articles, I guess.

“And I had no idea he’d been a finalist for a Pulitzer Prize,” I murmur. “For investigative reporting.” I had no idea about a lot of things.

Natalie nudges me. “Who’s that? She keeps looking at us.”

Following her gaze, I see Detective Riley standing at the edge of the crowd. She nods in greeting.

I give her a wave, maybe a beat too late. “She’s a police officer. The one investigating what happened to Tim.”

Natalie’s eyes grow huge. “She’s looking for the killer here ? Right now?”

“Maybe,” I whisper, as we move forward another two paces. “I really don’t know.”

Natalie glances at Detective Riley again. “I guess that makes sense. Most people are killed by someone they know. That’s what they taught us in health class.”

“Shh.”

She gives me an evil look, because nobody likes to be shushed by her mother. But nobody wants to hear this kind of speculation at a funeral, either. I’m painfully aware of the cliché— it’s usually the boyfriend . Or girlfriend, I guess. That’s why it’s a health class topic.

Detective Riley implied the same thing at my kitchen table. I have to ask, Rowan .

Every cliché has truth in it. The pastor called Tim’s death a senseless tragedy , yet it must have made sense to someone.

We finally approach Tim’s family at the end of the receiving line. I eye Tim’s mother as she greets the couple in front of us. Her warm eyes are red-rimmed and far more exhausted than they’d been that night at Whole Foods. And his father—a slender man with fairer hair—looks as white as a sheet.

Buried in my pocketbook are Tim’s cuff links and watch. I’ve placed everything in a little cotton pouch, because it seemed more discreet than simply handing them over. He left these on my bedside table. Draw your own conclusions .

But this moment isn’t right for returning Tim’s things to his parents. Not with Natalie at my side.

The couple ahead of us gives the Kovaks a last hug and then moves on. Suddenly I’m eye to eye with Tim’s mom.

“Rowan,” Mrs. Kovak says softly. “Hello again.”

I’m surprised she remembers my name. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I just wanted to pay my respects. This is my daughter, Natalie.”

Her eyes take in Natalie, and then she tries and fails to smile. “It’s lovely of you both to come. The police told us that you found him. That must have been terrifying.”

“It was,” I agree quietly. “But I’ll be okay. I’m just so sorry.”

“We’d just been speaking about you,” she says, shaking her head. “I’d been asking Tim when he was going to bring you around for dinner.”

“Oh.” I don’t know how to respond. She must not know that we’d broken up.

“He spoke of you a little,” she says with a sad smile. “After we met at the grocery. I’m a very nosy mother, I guess. He said you’re an architect.”

“Right,” I whisper. “He was a good listener. In happier times, I appreciated how interested he was in my work. I’m just so sorry for your loss.”

“We should have had the chance to get to know each other better,” she says with a sniff.

I don’t know what to say to that. But Mr. Kovak bails me out with a “Thank you for coming.”

I take that as my cue to go, and so does Natalie, who puts her hand on my arm.

“Finally,” she whispers as soon as we’re out of earshot.

We walk toward the edge of the lawn, and I look around to get my bearings. My gaze snags on Detective Riley. She’s standing on the sidewalk, pad and pen in hand, watching the guests.

She nods again when I spot her.

The memory of our conversation passes over me like a dark cloud. Did you expect to run into him?

I told her no to protect myself, but the lie is eating a hole in my psyche. I wish they’d just arrest someone already and put me out of my misery. I haven’t been this fearful in years. Not since I was twenty-four years old and watching the police handcuff Natalie’s father. They’d pushed him into the back of a police cruiser and upended my life.

Different circumstances, of course, but that night changed me forever. And I know Tim’s death will, too.

***

We pick up sushi on the way home, as promised.

I lose my appetite when we find a stranger standing on our front walk. It’s a woman in her thirties. Pretty, with intense brown eyes.

“Ms. Gallagher?” she says. “Can I have a word? My name is Jules. I’m an investigative journalist.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, not caring how abrupt it sounds. “No comment.”

She doesn’t move, and her intense eyes narrow. “I worked with Tim. I was at the funeral. I want to ask you a few questions.”

We’re basically at a standoff. She’s still blocking the path, but I could follow Natalie’s example and step around her onto the grass.

I’d promised Beatrice that I’d never talk to the press. But I hadn’t realized how difficult it is to be rude to someone asking for help. “I’m sorry, but I can’t talk to a reporter. You should know, though, that I wouldn’t be much help. I didn’t know him that well.”

“But you could just talk to me on background. That means—”

“I know what it means,” I say crisply. “I can’t help you. I’m sorry. And this is private property.”

I walk past her and into the house. All I need in this world is some sushi and a decent night’s sleep. What I don’t need is another chance to describe how Tim had broken up with me a few days before he died.

I lock the door carefully and then peek through the peephole. Apparently, the reporter’s given up—she’s climbing into a blue SUV.

Good.

We eat our take-out dinner, but I barely taste it. “I’m going to put on my pjs and get in bed with a few episodes of... something. And you’re going to walk the dog and study Spanish?”

Natalie rolls her eyes. “Of course I am. Big fun here tonight, yeah?”

“Yup.” I don’t care about big fun. All I want is to roll back to a time when nobody was dead.

I clean up from our meal and head upstairs to change and climb into bed. After propping my laptop on my knees, I decide to check my email before navigating Netflix. Big mistake. There’s a new message from Natalie’s father, Harrison. The subject line reads: We have to talk about Natalie.

He’s wrong. On the day of a funeral, I absolutely do not have to talk to anyone. Least of all my ex-con ex-boyfriend.

I close the tab and open up a search window. Tim Kovak adoption , I type. There are no results. Tim Kovak Magdalene Home . No hits.

The first conversation Tim and I ever had was about the Wincott Mansion, and my discovery of family documents relating to the maternity home. Many of those babies would have been adopted in the Portland area.

But if he had a personal connection to the place, he never said so.