Reputation(31)

The man notices me and untangles his arm from Laura’s. “Kit, right?” he asks, walking toward Willa and me. His face is open and kind, and his voice is higher than I expected.

I nod, shakily. He offers a hand. “Ollie Apatrea. I’m part of the Blue Hill precinct. I just wanted to let you know that I’m so, so sorry for your loss.”

“Oh.” I limply pump Ollie’s firm, warm hand. I hadn’t known Laura’s husband was a cop. “I met with someone else when I was in there—Reardon?”

“Yep. Detective Reardon’s the best in the business—he’s going to figure this out for you.” Then he glances at my sister. “Ollie,” he says, offering his hand.

Willa fumbles awkwardly. “Kit’s sister, Willa. Hi.”

Ollie squints. “Do we know each other?”

“I don’t think so,” Willa says tightly, doing a half-turn away from him.

Ollie lingers on her for a beat and then turns back to me. “If he’s ever busy, let me give you my card.” He hands a card to me, holding my gaze. “This is a real shock for all of us. Everyone at the station is trying to pitch in.”

“Oh.” I smile shakily. “Well, thanks.” Then I nod to Laura. “Nice to see you again.”

She gives me a mousy smile in return. Ollie’s gaze remains on me for a beat longer, and then they both turn for the church. I pinch the business card between my thumb and forefinger until it bends. That’s one thing I’ll say about the Blue Hill PD—everyone has been over-the-top friendly.

Willa watches them as they walk up the steps. “How do they know Greg?”

“Laura was one of Greg’s nurses.”

“Cute kid, but couldn’t she have found a babysitter?”

I shrug. What do I care if a baby cries through the service?

We step into the lobby, which is empty because the service is about to start—it’s possible everyone was waiting for us. The double doors of the church’s main hall are flung open, and every pew is stuffed with people. Dr. Cho from cardiology. Dr. Rosenstein, the hospital chief—and a huge donor to Aldrich University. A horde of doctors’ wives sit together, their eyes sharp and searching. Miles, Greg’s best man at our wedding, stares at me like he’s seen a ghost. Kristin, the sweet, sensible girlfriend my dad unexpectedly broke up with that previous August, sits in a back pew. Dozens of pretty women I don’t recognize are here, too. I wonder if one of them is Lolita. I wonder if one of them is Greg’s killer.

Faces turn when they see us and, just as I predicted, the farce begins. There are fake smiles all around. Murmurs of condolences. Pitying looks. I smile back, but in my head, I’m slapping cheeks, throwing drinks in faces. It’s so obvious some of these people are here just for the spectacle of it all. I search the crowd, finding Greg’s only living family, a dotty, out-of-touch great-aunt named Florence. Aunt Florence looks at me with pity, so I shoot her my only genuine smile so far today.

Willa touches my forearm. “Are you okay?”

“What do you think?” I whisper back.

“Do you want to leave?”

Yes, I want to say, but imagine how that would look?

Then another hand steadies me. “Come on, Kitty. Let’s go.”

It’s my dad, dressed in a gray suit and a dark tie. His strong fingers curl around my forearm. Relief fills me—he’s here. I fall into him in the same way I fell into him at my mom’s funeral, when I could barely stand. At the front row, Dad heads for the middle of the pew, and we all slide in, me in the middle, Dad next to me, and then Willa and the girls.

There’s a pause in the organ music. And then, like music all its own, come the whispers.

She looks like she’s drunk.

She’d have to be to get through all this.

Do you really think she did it?

Of course. I can’t believe she even showed up. It’s monstrous.

Kit Manning-Strasser doesn’t react to petty bullshit, I tell myself, but can’t they wait until they’re somewhere private? And worse, these are girls I socialize with, sit on sports sidelines with. Women who invited Greg and me to Christmas parties, festivals downtown, charity events. Will I ever be invited to those again? Or am I suddenly, irrevocably tainted, persona non grata?

A minister I’ve met only once—yesterday—appears at the podium. The crowd quiets down, and this man begins to talk about someone named Greg Strasser, who bears absolutely no resemblance to the man I married. He opens with a few words about Greg’s big heart, then waxes about Greg’s dedication to his work and family, then brings it home with some words about Greg’s integrity and honor. I nearly burst out laughing. Where has this guy gotten this information from? Yesterday, when we spoke, he asked me to write a few words about Greg’s life. I tried to think of positive things to say . . .

Like the memory of Greg the day of Martin’s surgery. Martin and I appeared in the cold pre-op room at 5:00 A.M., bleary-eyed and nervous. The moment I saw Greg in the hall, scrubs on, surgical mask around his chin, I’d felt that same perverse buzz again. Greg held my gaze, and I felt like he actually saw into me—saw all my fears, my conflicted emotions, even my faults. And it’s as if he said, It’s okay. I’ll make this better.

But then, hours later, after so much waiting for the results, Greg himself appeared over me in the waiting room, still in medical scrubs and a hairnet. There was a speck of something that looked like blood on his sleeve. I’d stood quickly, my heart dropping to my knees. I knew what he was going to say before he even opened his mouth. His expression said it all. And then I just sort of . . . fell into him.