Page 5 of The Woman at the Funeral (Costa Family #11)

Blair

A headache was hammering behind my eyes when the pounding at the apartment door started.

“Ugh.” I rolled out of bed, feeling paper-dry from the inside out.

I reached for the glass decanter on the nightstand, pouring the contents into the matching glass and greedily taking a drink as I made my way out of the bedroom and down the hall.

The last thing I needed after yet another night of crying was to deal with someone at my door, so I was pretty much planning on checking to see who it was then pretending I wasn’t home.

Admittedly, the only reason I was checking at all was that some pathetic part of me was hoping it might be Nico Costa.

As I narrowed in on the peephole, though, I knew it was a pipe dream. It had been six days since the funeral. There’d been no sign of Nico.

Of course there hadn’t been.

If there was one bitter reality pill I’d needed to swallow in my life, it was that I was—and always would be—on my own.

Leaning in, I peered out.

Not Nico.

Ronny. With her sisters and Matthew’s brother.

I closed my eyes and carefully stepped away from the door, praying they wouldn’t see my shadow.

“This is why I told Matty I needed a key. But, no. Miss Hoity-Toity wouldn’t let him get another keycard or key.”

Because I knew what it would mean if I’d given his family access. They would barge in uninvited. They would be hanging around with their shoes on my nice couch, sweaty drinks on my coffee table, food being dropped on my light-colored rug. And they would never know when to leave.

Matt and I had argued about it a dozen times in our short marriage. But it was one of the few things I dug my heels in on.

“Danny, do you think you could pick this lock?” Ronny asked, making me sigh.

There was a keyhole under the card reader for things like dead batteries on the reader. So, yeah, Danny probably could pick it. But he would also set off my alarm. Which would trigger a call from my security agency, so the police didn’t head over.

And, worst of all, the Ferraros would know I’d been pretending not to be home.

With a sigh, I reached for the locks as I heard scratching on the card reader as Danny got to work. He did know what he was doing. He’d been a petty thief his whole life. He’d only recently gotten out of prison from his last run-in with the law.

“Well, finally,” Ronny said as the door slid open. Her gaze moved over me, making me suddenly self-conscious about my silk tank and shorts set.

I crossed my arms over my chest when Danny’s gaze slipped to my breasts, which weren’t overly hidden beneath the champagne-colored material.

“That’s what you wear to bed when your husband is still warm in the grave?” Ronny sniffed.

Matching sets were the only pajamas I owned. But there was no reason to tell Ronny that. She’d judge me either way.

“Hey, Ronny. Can I help you with something?”

“Yes, you can move out of the way so I can come in and go through my son’s things.”

“What?”

“His things. I need to go through them.”

“Why?”

“Well, someone has to do it, don’t they?”

She’d said something similar about the funeral arrangements. She’d been so bossy about it that I’d just handed the task over to her. Which, of course, only gave her more ammunition to use against me. She can’t even be bothered to arrange her husband’s funeral.

“I will be going through them,” I told her. “As you said, it has only been a few days. I haven’t been ready yet.”

“Well, I’m ready.”

With that, one of her sisters shoved her body into the door, knocking me back as the door jammed my arm.

I’d just wrapped my head around the pain in my arm when they all barged their way inside, making their way down the hallway.

Danny tracked lightly muddy shoe prints the whole way.

At least it wasn’t on my rug, I guess.

“Makes a living hanging pictures on the wall but has none at her own home?” I heard one of Ronny’s sisters murmur as she walked down the hall.

I breathed out hard through my nose, counting backward from ten.

The Ferraro family—Matthew included—never did understand my original career path, let alone how it evolved.

When I met Matthew, I’d been working as a curator at The Halberstam Gallery. While also working on a fun side project: an online social media platform and blog about art that I’d named “The Tenth Muse.”

I never meant for it to go viral. But slowly but surely, I started to amass a following. Then a name for myself that allowed me to write for magazines. And, of course, supplement my income enough that I got to get myself a really nice apartment and expensive furniture.

All with my love of art.

Eventually, after I got married, I decided to step back from the gallery with the hopes of quickly starting a family of my own.

Thanks to my blog and social media presence, I managed to segue my career toward private art consulting and curating private collections for old money, hedge funders, and nouveau-rich crypto guys.

It wasn’t long before I’d almost doubled what I was making before. While working half the hours.

It had been perfect.

A great career for a mom.

But then months ticked by, and there weren’t even any signs of a baby. Test after test to see if something was wrong with me that wouldn’t allow me to get pregnant, only to be told everything was working as it should. And I just needed to give it time and enjoy the process.

The “process” had gotten less and less frequent over the past year, though, as the cracks in our marriage became chasms.

So I eventually doubled down on work. I started making more and more money. While Matthew sat around talking about his schemes and telling me he was going to retire me.

Retire me to do what?

Sit at home and do his laundry?

Cater to his ever-changing emotions?

Reflect on how miserable I was?

I shook those thoughts away. There was no use harping on all of the broken promises, the failed potential of our lives together. It had been over long before Matthew’s death. We’d just both been dragging along the corpse of our relationship because neither had been brave enough to say we were done.

I moved toward the kitchen, listening to the sounds of their voices but choosing not to hear the actual words as they dug through my closet and drawers.

I don’t know if they were thinking they’d find something worth anything in Matt’s belongings. They wouldn’t. The only expensive thing he’d owned was a watch I’d bought him for our first anniversary.

He’d forgotten the day.

I hadn’t even gotten apology flowers.

They could have the watch if they wanted it. Matthew didn’t like to wear it anyway. He said it made him feel like less of a man, knowing his wife bought it for him.

I was more worried that one of them might walk off with some of my things instead.

But not worried enough to confront them or even watch what they were doing. Whatever went missing, I could replace. The only thing that had sentimental value was the locket I had around my neck.

I put my glass down, and my hand went there, sliding across the old cold oval that was worn smooth from my fingers playing with it over the years.

There was another knock—softer this time—at the door.

I groaned, wondering which other family member would be traipsing through my home now.

But when I opened the door, it was Nico standing there.

“Nico.” His name almost sighed out of me. I wanted to suck the sound back in, worrying he might somehow be able to infer from it that I’d had more than a few sweaty dreams about him since the funeral. Ones that made me wake up overheated and ashamed, but pulsing with desire.

He looked as good as my fantasies made him out to be. Wide shoulders, great hair, a gray suit that was tailored perfectly to his frame. A gold cross around his neck. A watch that matched, but was different from the one at the funeral.

I was so laser-focused on him that I saw the quick movement of his stormy eyes as they moved from my face and glided over my mostly bare body. I’m not proud to admit the way each inch his gaze moved over flamed to life.

He was quick to drag his gaze back to my face, though. And I wasn’t sure if it was reality or wishful thinking that I could swear I saw heat in his eyes.

“Blair,” he said, his gaze flicking to the side, taking in my long dark hair.

I reached self-consciously toward it.

I never wore it down. Not even on my wedding. It felt too, I don’t know, personal and intimate to have it down. I felt more put together and composed when it was pulled back.

“I—” he started.

But it was just then that someone in the closet set off an avalanche that had me tipping my head back to stare at the ceiling as a sigh escaped me.

“They beat me here.”

“You knew they were coming?”

“Ronny texted me. I thought I would beat them here to warn you.”

“Did she say why she was coming here?” I asked, moving aside to let Nico in, feeling like he was an ally in a time when I really needed one. Even if I didn’t know the man well enough to know anything about his loyalties.

The look that slashed across his face told me it was definitely one of Ronny’s snide remarks.

“You can tell me. Trust me, I’ve heard worse.”

Nico sucked in a breath so deep it expanded his whole chest. “She said she wanted to get Matt’s personal effects before you sold them.”

“Sold them,” I scoffed, shaking my head. “Because I need the money.” I waved a hand out at the apartment that he had to know I paid for all on my own. Since Matthew never could keep a job.

When we’d first met, he’d told me he was a consultant. And I’d been so starry-eyed and caught up in his web of charm that I hadn’t realized that was just a synonym for ‘unemployed.’

“I’m sorry,” Nico said.

“It’s not your fault. Maybe this is good. Maybe I won’t have to worry about them bursting in at a future date. Do you want some coffee?”

“Sure. Whatever you’re having is fine.”