“I guess one of them is her,” Ryan said. He nodded toward the chapel entry just ahead and to the right. “Should we find out which one? Pay our respects?”
I wasn’t sure I could. My throat felt too tight and I desperately wished I hadn’t come. This was everything I’d hoped not to see. Family. A history that wasn’t squalor and abuse and poverty, but the kind of upbringing that should have led to … well, anything but where it had.
“Cassie?” Ryan, who had taken a few steps toward the doorway, turned and looked at me, his eyebrows raised. “Are you coming?”
I nodded mutely. My feet felt encased in cinder blocks, but I forced them forward. One, then the other, until I was beside him.
He frowned, whispering, “You okay?”
I nodded again, forcing another step. Clomp. I could see into the room now: wooden chairs scattered throughout, wall sconces dimmed, groups of people talking in hushed voices, glancing now and then toward the front of the room. And the casket. Just the foot edge of it. Dark wood, gleaming like the surface of a frozen pond. It stopped me cold.
Ryan stepped closer, gently touching my arm. I looked up at him, standing beside me with real concern in his eyes. It was a tenderness that was hauntingly, achingly familiar and I realized three things simultaneously:
One, Ryan liked me. Really liked me. In a way I should have—and probably had—recognized a long time ago, though I hadn’t wanted to admit it.
Two, I felt things for him, too—except they weren’t for him. They were for the honest and caring part of him that reminded me so much of Jack, who always made me feel like things would be okay, even when they might not be. Something I desperately, desperately needed now.
And three, Ryan wasn’t Jack.
I took a deep breath and smiled weakly. “Sorry,” I whispered. “Felt a little dizzy. Maybe something I ate.”
“Do you want to sit?” Ryan glanced toward the small sofas lining the wall. “We could—”
“No, no. That’s okay.” I smiled again, but it felt more like a grimace. “Let’s just go in.”
“Okay.” Ryan took my hand and gave it a little squeeze. It might have been comforting if I didn’t feel so bad about who’d really been on my mind each time I was with Ryan. Still, I let him lead me into the chapel and to the casket.
We stood silently facing Lucy Edwards. I didn’t recognize the woman laid out before us any more than I’d recognized her in the photos and painting out front. She looked like a slightly older version of any one of my friends’ mothers. Lightly wrinkled with tasteful makeup and brown-gray hair neatly framing her face.
It struck me that there was every possibility this wasn’t the woman Zander and I had seen. All I’d been going on was her age and the fact that she’d spent some time at a shelter in the same neighborhood where we’d found the woman with the mark. Nothing concrete, really. This whole excursion could very well be a colossal waste of time. The woman from the alley wasn’t someone who had a family like this that might have helped her, cared about her, reconnected with her, had they known. She was nothing like that at all.
I nudged Ryan. “You ready?” I wanted to go. Quickly.
He glanced down at me. “Not feeling good?”
I shrugged, noncommittal. I was feeling fine. Just ready to be away from this scene—the dead woman, her family, Ryan-who-wasn’t-Jack. All of it.
He nodded, still grasping my hand as we started toward the foyer.
I recognized Lucy Edwards’s sister near the exit and almost headed for the opposite door, but Ryan saw her too, automatically steering us that way to offer the required condolences before leaving. If there’s one thing you learn working at a funeral home, it’s the importance of etiquette.
“You’re Ms. Edwards’s sister?” he asked when the guest before us moved on.
“I am. Julia Redmond,” she said, her voice thready, her smile forced but kind.
“We knew your sister from the shelter,” Ryan said smoothly. “She was a lovely person. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“My condolences, as well,” I added formally, thankful for Ryan’s years of practice and my months of eavesdropping.
Julia Redmond looked like she’d been punched.
In a moment of perfect clarity, I knew there was no use pretending this was a mistaken identity and unfortunate waste of time. Lucy Edwards was the woman from the alley.
Her sister’s mouth opened and closed once, then twice, fishlike, before she spoke. “Why didn’t you contact us?” she said, obviously strained. “Don’t you try to find the families?”
We should go, I thought. Now. But Ryan, who had no idea where and how Lucy Edwards had been found—something I was certain from her expression that the sister did—said calmly, “I’m so sorry. We’re not always able to—”
“We had no idea what had happened to Lucy.” Julia Redmond’s voice was tighter, speaking over him. “Surely you people”—she spat it disdainfully—“can recognize problems like Lucy’s. Why weren’t you watching her? Why wasn’t she at your ‘shelter’ instead of freezing to death on the street?” Her voice was rising, louder and more shrill with each question. “How could you let her die in a pile of garbage?” People were listening, turning to look at the three of us.
Julia Redmond realized it and leaned in close, her face twisted with anger and bitterness. “She came to you for help,” she hissed. “And you let her die. You killed her.”
It was as if she had spoken to the deepest part of my conscience. Any small bit of assurance I had shattered. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “We … we’ll go.” I walked toward the door fast, dragging Ryan behind me. I kept my back to the room as we stood at the coat check, praying the girl would move faster, even thinking of leaving without them, and waiting to feel the hard, accusing hand of the sister or brother or any of the other people standing in the room.
“What do you—”
“Shh,” I hissed at Ryan. “Not now.”
After an eternity, our coats came. I shrugged mine on, hurried Ryan into his, grabbed his hand, and pushed out into the freezing night.
“What on earth just happened?” Ryan asked, turning to face me on the porch as the door shushed closed behind us. “Why was that lady—”
“Well, isn’t this cute?”