The Perfect Stranger (Social Media #2)(63)

No, she’s here for Meredith.

Meredith, who lived her life in such a way that her funeral is standing room only. When all is said and done, that’s all that really matters, although . . .

When her time comes, she thinks, her own funeral might be just as crowded—or more so. But not with friends and relatives who loved her for who she was and will truly miss her when she’s gone.

No—they’d be drawn to her funeral for very different reasons . . .

Unless something changes very drastically.

You can do that. You can change, even now. It’s not too late.

Meredith’s voice seems to fill her head.

Of course, even when she gave that little pep talk, Meredith never knew the truth about her . . .

But she does now, Jaycee realizes. Wherever she is.

Maybe her spirit really is here, offering support, and . . . forgiveness.

Jaycee closes her eyes, head bowed.

If you’re here, Meredith, I’m so sorry. I hope you know that I only did what I had to do.

What I thought I had to do.

As she reflects on the choices she made, a feeling creeps over her—not peaceful comfort, but a familiar wariness that has become second nature after all these years: the distinct sensation that she’s being watched.

She lifts her head slightly, half expecting to see Meredith’s ghost—or perhaps one of the bloggers, having somehow spotted her and figured out who she is.

That’s impossible, though. Even if they’re here, they can’t possibly know that you’re . . . you. Her. Whoever—whoever you’ve convinced them you are. Jaycee.

When she looks up, she finds herself making immediate eye contact with a woman who’s standing along the wall toward the front of the room, staring right at her.

She’s African-American, so she can’t be Landry, Kay, or Elena. She’s just some random person who for some reason seems to be paying more attention to the mourners than to the service itself.

She’s the cop, Jaycee realizes. God knows she’s had more than her share of contact with them. She can sniff out law enforcement even from this distance.

Now, as the woman gets a good look at her face, her eyes narrow with recognition.

Jaycee quickly looks down again, heart pounding. So much for blessed anonymity. The lady cop’s gaze remains as palpable as the searing glare of a heat lamp.

Damn it, damn it, damn it.

She shouldn’t have come. She should have fought the familiar old instinct to run away. Anniversary or not, newspaper article or not, she should have spent the weekend locked safely into her apartment in the sky, away from prying eyes.

As the service draws to a close with Meredith Heywood’s daughter reading a poem, there isn’t a dry eye in the house—except, perhaps, for Crystal’s and Frank’s.

It isn’t that they’re immune to emotion in a tragic case such as this, but when you’re a homicide detective, you have to compartmentalize.

Crystal sweeps yet another shrewd gaze over the crowd of mourners. Most of them are surreptitiously dabbing their eyes with tissues or sobbing openly.

Hank Heywood sits on the aisle seat in the front row with his head buried in his hands. Across the space vacated by Rebecca, her duplicitous husband Keith seems detached from her brothers, who sit beside him with their wives between them, all four of them clasping hands.

Keith is fixated on his wife as she reads the poem, not daring to sneak a peek at his secret boyfriend.

Jonathan Randall slipped into the service right after it started, standing in the back.

Crystal noticed him immediately—and noticed Keith turning his head to look for him moments later, as if sensing his presence. He offered a glassy smile when he spotted Jonathan, and Jonathan returned it.

Crystal watched them closely as the service progressed. They barely glanced at each other, but she could feel the vibe between them and knew they were as aware of each other as middle schoolers deliberately not noticing members of the opposite sex at a dance.

She also kept a steady eye on Hank Heywood. The man appears utterly shattered. His daughter kept her arm around him throughout the service, letting go only to walk shakily to the podium to read her poem.

Her voice wavers as she speaks, and she stops several times, too choked up to go on. Now the poem is winding down.

“And afterward, remember, do not grieve . . .”

As Rebecca reads the line, Crystal sees, out of the corner of her eye, movement near the exit at the back of the room.

She looks up just in time to see Jenna Coeur disappear through the double doors.

Crystal hadn’t immediately recognized her when she first arrived—late, and wearing an oversized black hat and sunglasses in a room almost entirely populated by sturdy, well-scrubbed midwesterners in department store suits and dresses.

She must have realized she stuck out like a cupcake on a plate of toast, because she skittishly removed the hat and glasses, further attracting Crystal’s attention. There was something furtive about her movements, the way she kept her head down . . .

Crystal’s instincts told her that she was looking at a woman who had something to hide.

The moment they made eye contact, Crystal realized that her instincts were dead on. She had something to hide, all right: she’d been at the center of one of the most notorious murder cases in recent years.

Jenna Coeur’s dark hair might be dyed blond or concealed beneath a wig now, but her natural beauty and famously distinct resemblance to the actress Ingrid Bergman was immediately recognizable. She looked like Bergman in Casablanca at the height of her career: the large eyes beneath arched brows, the strong nose, the high cheekbones.