The Perfect Stranger (Social Media #2)(62)

No. That isn’t the case at all, Kay thinks, inching forward with the line of mourners waiting to connect with the Heywood family.

You were wrong, Mother. As wrong about that as you were about everything else.

When it’s her turn to meet the Heywoods, she moves robotically down the line with Landry and Elena, introducing herself as one of Meredith’s blogger friends.

“You all meant so much to Mom.” Meredith’s daughter clasps her hand. “She was always telling us about you.”

“She talked about all of you, too,” Kay tells her. “She was so proud of you. She told me all about the beautiful Mother’s Day party you all had a few weeks ago. She even e-mailed me pictures, and she said you made her favorite cheesecake . . .”

“Actually, I wound up buying it,” Rebecca Heywood replies with a sad smile. “I wish I’d had a chance to make it for her that day.”

“I’m sure it didn’t matter. What mattered to her was that you were all there with her. That’s what she remembered.”

And then the person behind her is reaching for Rebecca’s hand and it’s time for Kay to move on.

The rest of it—everything else she’d wanted to tell Meredith’s family—will have to be left unsaid.

Jaycee’s cell phone buzzes in her oversized bag on the passenger’s seat of the rental car as she pulls into the parking lot behind McGraw’s Funeral Home. She reaches inside without looking at it and turns it off. Whoever it is—probably Cory—can wait. The service was scheduled to start ten minutes ago. She wanted to be late—but not any later than this.

Clearly, Meredith was as popular with her real-life friends as she was with the online group. Every spot in the lot is taken.

Jaycee can’t help but flash back to another funeral in another time, another place. Empty parking lot, with only herself and the pastor to stand beside her grandmother’s simple pinewood casket.

She sobbed through that ceremony. Not because her grandmother was dead—she’d hated her. Not because she was pregnant, either. But because Steven Petersen—her one true friend, the love of her life—hadn’t had the decency to show up. He could have come for her sake, not for her grandmother’s; Steve had hated her, too.

That was the last time she allowed herself to shed tears in public. It was the last time she ever lost someone who truly mattered.

Steve.

After all they’d been through together . . .

No. Don’t think about that now.

Thoughts of Steve always lead to thoughts of her . . .

Pushing the blood-drenched memories from her mind, Jaycee follows the signs and drives around the ugly yellow brick building to the overflow lot. The gravel patch there is nearly full of cars. On the far end, across from the last couple of empty spaces, she spots the sedan Landry rented at the airport.

Obviously, she, too, arrived late—despite her flight having landed with plenty of time to spare. Did Landry also dawdle in her hotel room, having second thoughts about showing her face here today?

In the end, Jaycee opted to come. The funeral, after all, is why she flew to Ohio in the first place this morning—aside from needing a convenient escape hatch.

She wasn’t going to allow herself to come all this way without paying her last respects to one of the few friends she had left in this world.

She pulls into a spot across from Landry’s rental, turns off the engine, and glances into the rearview mirror. Between her broad-brimmed black hat and oversized sunglasses, only her mouth, nose, and jaw are visible. No one is going to recognize her if she slips quietly into the back and then leaves early.

Her heels poke into the gravel as she steps out of the car. It’s slow going until she reaches the pavement. Now her pace is steadier, heels tapping along briskly. As she makes her way toward the entrance, she spots a black Crown Victoria—an unmarked cop car?

Of course.

Meredith was murdered. It would make sense that there would be a police presence at the service today. They’ll be watching the crowd carefully, looking for suspicious behavior, perhaps pulling people aside for questioning—a thought that’s almost enough to send Jaycee straight back to her car.

Before she can turn around, the door opens and a man in a dark suit beckons to her. The funeral director, she realizes. He’s been watching her approach through the glass panel. There’s nothing she can do but walk up the steps and cross the threshold.

“In there,” the man whispers, gesturing at a pair of closed doors.

She nods her thanks and crosses the foyer, conscious of his eyes on her. Reaching for the knob on the right, she gives it a gentle tug. Both doors swing open, but the one on the left quickly closes again with a loud sound before she can catch it.

Jaycee keeps her head down. There’s a rustling commotion; several people in the crowded room turn to look at her as she carefully closes the other door.

A robed reverend is speaking beside the gleaming urn—no plain pine box for Meredith Heywood’s remains—and every folding chair and inch of perimeter wall is occupied. No one else is wearing a hat or sunglasses. Realizing this getup makes her even more conspicuous, Jaycee removes both and wedges herself into a narrow slot beside the door, staring at the carpet, reminding herself why she’s here.

Not just because she wanted to escape New York on what would have been a difficult day, thanks to Cory’s early delivery of the morning paper with its disturbing news item.