It had been several years since I last attended a funeral, but in some ways, it felt recently familiar, like an ephemeral dream I’d had only yesterday. A dream that haunted my existence. It took every fiber of my being to remain seated. All I wanted to do was bolt out the back door.
Few things were certain. Alexandra’s murder was personal. Louis’s murder was personal, but in a different way. I still didn’t know how yet, but they didn’t feel the same. The failed abduction of Chelsea was tied to her mother’s murder somehow. Although Barbara Berry had accused Alexandra’s husband, I didn’t believe he was the killer. He didn’t care enough about whether Alexandra lived or died. Not even when it came to his precious money. He almost seemed relieved to be rid of her. I didn’t believe he’d harm his daughter either.
At the back of the room, a man leaned against the wall, alone, his arms folded in front of him. He was too far away for me to get a good look at him, but for a split second he looked familiar, and I found myself struggling to draw breath.
“What is it?” Finch asked. “You okay?”
“It’s nothing. I thought I saw ... it’s just ... I thought—”
“Thought you saw whom?”
I was rubbing my wrist again.
Finch placed his hand over mine, stopping me from making my wrist any redder than it already was. He stood and turned, eyeballing the man until he was satisfied. Then he sat back down. “It’s not him, Joss.”
“I know. I know it’s not. I can’t help it sometimes, you know?”
“Nothing’s going to happen. Not while I’m with you.”
It was those rare moments when he wasn’t that I worried about.
I shifted my attention, focusing on the people around me. Most of the funeral attendees were nobodies, people I didn’t recognize. Scattered among them, attempting to look discreet, were a few officers dressed in plain clothes, including Blunt, who refused to look at me even though she knew I was there. Her eyes flicked around like darts trying to hit multiple targets, assessing every move, every twitch. My eyes were fixed on one person, Roland Sinclair, who kept his eyes on Alexandra’s casket.
The services concluded with a song, and Roland stood. In his hand were two pink and white lilies. He walked to the casket, bent down, lifted Alexandra’s hand to his lips, and kissed it. He tucked the flowers beside her waist, took a deep breath, then walked away. Porter approached him on his way out. The two exchanged terse words, none of which seemed pleasant.
Roland was the first to break away from the conversation. I stepped into the aisle before he passed me, wrapping my hand around his arm. “Mr. Sinclair, can I speak to you?”
Tears pooled inside his eyes as he looked at me. “Not here, Miss Jax. Come with me.”
I followed him outside and came face to face with Doyle Eldridge. His hands were folded in front of his waist. He paced the area in front of the first step, scratching at his head, then brushed past me, entering the funeral home. I didn’t know whether to talk to Roland or go after Doyle. I decided Doyle could wait. If he caused a stir inside, the cops would take care of him.
I looked at Roland. “Alexandra’s husband just spoke to you. What did he say?”
“Porter Wells isn’t Alexandra’s husband. He’s her ex-husband.” A black Jaguar with tinted windows pulled next to the curb, stopping in front of us. He opened the door, turned toward me, and said, “Get in.”
I surveyed the crowd still in the church and didn’t see Finch. Thinking I’d be fine sitting in the pew for a few minutes while he went to the bathroom, he would probably be shocked when he returned and didn’t find me inside the church. Actually, maybe he wouldn’t be so shocked.
“I don’t have much time,” Roland pressed. “Are you coming or not?”
I slid onto the black leather in the backseat. Roland sat next to me. After the car pulled away, I looked out the back window and saw Finch, hands on hips, angry.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“I’m going to the airport. Where you choose to go afterward is entirely up to you.”
It was easy to see what Alexandra saw in Roland. Dressed in a fitted gray suit, he was sophisticated and tall, at least six foot four, with short, dark, wavy hair and tanned skin. He looked Italian or Sicilian and smelled of jasmine and bergamot. I hoped he didn’t notice how I was shamelessly breathing him in.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I said.
“What question?”
“I asked you what Alexandra Weston’s ex-husband said to you just now.”
He twisted the top button on his shirt until it broke free, glanced out the window. “He blames me for Alex’s death.”
“Why would he blame you?”
“He has his reasons, which only make sense to him, I suppose.”
What were his exact words?”
“He said, ‘It’s your fault she’s dead. You murdered her.’”