Page 39 of Dying to Meet You
We move forward. “He never told me he was adopted,” I whisper.
“Oh,” my daughter says with a shrug.
The line moves again, and now we’re in front of a bunch of newspaper clippings. His articles, I guess.
“And I had no idea he’d been a finalist for a Pulitzer Prize,” I murmur. “For investigative reporting.” I had no idea about a lot of things.
Natalie nudges me. “Who’s that? She keeps looking at us.”
Following her gaze, I see Detective Riley standing at the edge of the crowd. She nods in greeting.
I give her a wave, maybe a beat too late. “She’s a police officer. The one investigating what happened to Tim.”
Natalie’s eyes grow huge. “She’s looking for the killerhere? Right now?”
“Maybe,” I whisper, as we move forward another two paces. “I really don’t know.”
Natalie glances at Detective Riley again. “I guess that makes sense. Most people are killed by someone they know. That’s what they taught us in health class.”
“Shh.”
She gives me an evil look, because nobody likes to be shushed by her mother. But nobody wants to hear this kind of speculation at a funeral, either. I’m painfully aware of the cliché—it’s usually the boyfriend. Or girlfriend, I guess. That’s why it’s a health class topic.
Detective Riley implied the same thing at my kitchen table.I have to ask, Rowan.
Every cliché has truth in it. The pastor called Tim’s death asenseless tragedy, yet it must have made sense to someone.
We finally approach Tim’s family at the end of the receiving line. I eye Tim’s mother as she greets the couple in front of us. Her warm eyes are red-rimmed and far more exhausted than they’d been that night at Whole Foods. And his father—a slender man with fairer hair—looks as white as a sheet.
Buried in my pocketbook are Tim’s cuff links and watch. I’ve placed everything in a little cotton pouch, because it seemed more discreet than simply handing them over.He left these on my bedside table. Draw your own conclusions.
But this moment isn’t right for returning Tim’s things to his parents. Not with Natalie at my side.
The couple ahead of us gives the Kovaks a last hug and then moves on. Suddenly I’m eye to eye with Tim’s mom.
“Rowan,” Mrs. Kovak says softly. “Hello again.”
I’m surprised she remembers my name. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I just wanted to pay my respects. This is my daughter, Natalie.”
Her eyes take in Natalie, and then she tries and fails to smile. “It’s lovely of you both to come. The police told us that you found him. That must have been terrifying.”
“It was,” I agree quietly. “But I’ll be okay. I’m just so sorry.”
“We’djustbeen speaking about you,” she says, shaking her head. “I’d been asking Tim when he was going to bring you around for dinner.”
“Oh.” I don’t know how to respond. She must not know that we’d broken up.
“He spoke of you a little,” she says with a sad smile. “After we met at the grocery. I’m a very nosy mother, I guess. He said you’re an architect.”
“Right,” I whisper. “He was a good listener. In happier times, I appreciated how interested he was in my work. I’m just so sorry for your loss.”
“We should have had the chance to get to know each other better,” she says with a sniff.
I don’t know what to say to that. But Mr. Kovak bails me out with a “Thank you for coming.”
I take that as my cue to go, and so does Natalie, who puts her hand on my arm.
“Finally,” she whispers as soon as we’re out of earshot.
