The Perfect Stranger (Social Media #2)(66)

Sheri dully looks down at the bag on her lap, fighting back tears.

Finally, she opens it and looks inside.

The first thing she sees is the wedding ring, catching the sunlight that falls through the window. She pulls it out, swallowing hard, and slides it over her fingers one by one. It’s much too big for all but her thumb. She leaves it there for now. Maybe she can wear it on a chain around her neck.

The bag’s remaining contents are meager. One by one she removes a house key, a small plastic bottle of hand sanitizer Roger always carried, a pack of cigarettes, and a couple of folded bills. Roger never keeps cash in his wallet, always places it in a separate pocket. Years ago, when they first met, Sheri asked him why. He said it was so that if a pickpocket robbed him, he wouldn’t be left without both cash and credit cards.

Whoever stole his wallet was probably looking for quick cash, probably drug money. Why else would you mug someone?

Sheri finds scant satisfaction in knowing that the murderer came away with nothing but credit cards, none of which have been used since the wallet went missing and aren’t likely to be now. Oh, and Roger’s silver lighter, the one he always carried. It’s missing as well.

About to set the empty bag aside, she frowns and peers into the bottom. Something else is there, a small, dark triangular object.

Pulling it out, she sees that it’s a guitar pick.

Certainly not Roger’s.

How did it end up with his belongings?

It must have gotten mixed in with this stuff back at the morgue, maybe fallen out of someone’s pocket . . .

You’d think the authorities would be more careful when dealing with someone’s final effects.

Final . . .

Final.

With a sob, Sheri crumples the bag and tosses it onto the floor. The wedding ring goes with it, sliding off her thumb and rolling across the hardwoods.

With a whimper, Maggie lifts her nose from her paws and looks up at Sheri wearing a morose expression, as if she, too, is mourning.

Remember me when I am gone away . . .

Beck still can’t believe her mother is gone.

The funeral had been as torturous as she’d expected; struggling to maintain her composure, she’d been relieved the moment it ended.

But now she’s crying all over again as departing mourners take turns embracing her. No one seems to know quite what to say, other than to tell her how sorry they are, or how much they’re going to miss her mother, or how fitting the poem was, or how aptly the eulogy captured Mom.

The minister hadn’t known her very well, but he’d asked the family to help him prepare, taking notes as they shared anecdotes that had them laughing and crying, often simultaneously.

“Thank you,” Beck says, over and over, in response to the compliments about the service and the expressions of sympathy.

Some comments and questions are unexpectedly awkward: a few people want to know whether the police have a suspect yet.

She just shakes her head.

“Do you have any idea who might have done it?” a woman—a total stranger—asks her.

Beck just shakes her head as her uneasy gaze seeks and then settles on Detectives Burns and Schneider, across the room. She wasn’t at all surprised to see them here today and knows it’s not simply because they want to pay their respects to her mother.

They’re thinking the killer might be in the crowd.

Beck is thinking the same thing. When she allows the thought into her head, it’s all she can do not to flee for the nearest exit. The rest of the family appears to be feeling the same way.

And Dad . . . poor Dad.

Every time she glances at his face, she feels his pain.

She just hopes the detectives can, too; hopes they know he couldn’t possibly be responsible for what happened to Mom. No matter what statistics say . . .

No matter what I saw that day last month . . .

He didn’t do it. It’s that simple.

“Oh, Rebecca . . .” A childhood neighbor grabs onto her, hugging her hard. “I’m so sorry for all of you. Your poor father is going to be lost without your mother. Just make sure you take care of him.”

“Don’t worry,” she says grimly. “I will.”

Climbing into the backseat of the rental car after a long, silent walk from the funeral parlor to the back lot, Elena is still rattled by the brief encounter with the detective.

The woman took down basic information—their names, home addresses, ages—and arranged to meet them at their hotel later.

“I wonder if she’s doing that with everyone,” she says as Landry and Kay settle into their seats.

Neither of them asks who—or what—she’s talking about.

“I’m sure she is,” Landry says.

“Probably,” Kay agrees, pulling on her seat belt.

“We should stop off someplace on the way back to the hotel,” Elena suggests as Landry shifts the car into reverse, “and get something to eat.”

Something to drink is what she means. Her nerves are shot.

“Now?” Landry asks. “I thought we were planning to go out to dinner later.”

“We are, but we should get something now. Just, you know, something light. Especially since we have the detective coming to talk to us.”

“That might take a while. I could go for a cup of tea myself,” Kay agrees.