His eyes slid to the next box. Maggie. Matt released a sob. You were the heart of this family—the glue—and there won’t be a day that goes by where I won’t miss you. The world is a worse place without you. Even when I was away at school, you were with me—my conscience, my better angel, my proof in the fundamental goodness of people. Goodbye, Mags.
He had a fist lodged in his throat now. There was movement in the church, and he saw a figure take the microphone. The governor.
Matt eyed his mother’s casket, then his father’s. He wanted to say goodbye before the politician started blathering on. The rituals, the remarks, didn’t mean anything to him. He didn’t need the show.
Before he said his goodbyes, a siren wailed outside.
The sound intensified, and the church filled with a low rumble of voices. Matt turned and looked at his friends. Ganesh was making a what the fuck expression at the others. They all looked dumbfounded at the noise. Except Kala, who was from Oklahoma.
Matt heard her whisper, “Tornado warning.”
“All right, folks, I hate to do this,” the governor was saying into the microphone. Next to him, the minister was giving him instructions. “We need everyone to get down to the basement.”
The din of the crowd grew louder. “We’ve all been through this a million times and it’s probably nothing, but better safe than sorry, so let’s stay calm and make our way to the stairs.”
Quickly, mourners moved one pew at a time and marched up the aisle. The minister was at the top now, directing traffic.
Matt caught Ganesh’s eye. His friend gave him a sly smile and winked at him. It was an odd gesture, but somehow perfect.
It was an orderly exit. Aunt Cindy tried to usher Matt along with her, but he held back, said he wanted to make sure his friends got squared away. In truth, he wanted a moment alone to finish his goodbyes. Matt wasn’t scared of the tornado. In his fourteen years in Adair there had been countless warnings, a twister or two touching down in cornfields, but he’d never even seen a funnel cloud. His aunt reluctantly agreed, mostly because she needed to tend to Matt’s grandpa, who was riled up by the commotion.
With the church cleared out, Matt stood alone with the caskets. The wind was whistling outside, and there was a crack of lightning.
He touched a hand to his mother’s coffin, then his father’s.
There were no words, he decided.
Matt turned, and instead of heading to the basement, he loosened his tie and walked out into the storm.
CHAPTER 55
SARAH KELLER
Keller looked at herself in the motel room mirror. She wore her usual navy pantsuit and white blouse. It wasn’t perfect funeral attire, but it would have to do. She considered skipping the ceremony, wondered about the optics—an FBI agent at the church—but she decided to risk it. Though she’d never met them, she felt like she knew the Pines. She’d been through their belongings, studied their internet searches, talked with their friends, spent time with their surviving son. Surviving sons, plural, she reminded herself. She wanted to pay her respects.
Her cell phone rang. She was already running behind, and was going to ignore it. She wanted to slip into the church with the flock rather than rush in late with a spotlight on her. But the call was from Fishkill Correctional.
“Agent Keller,” she answered.
“Hi, this is Marge Boyle at Fishkill returning your call.” The prison liaison sounded bored, lethargic.
“Thanks for getting back to me. I’m just closing my file, crossing my t’s and dotting my i’s, and I wondered if you could send me the visitor log for Daniel Pine for the last six months?”
There had been leaks about the investigation coming from different fronts and Keller wanted the liaison to think the request was routine.
“No problem. We keep electronic copies. If you give me a second, I can email the log to you right now. I have it somewhere, I’m sure, but can you give me your email address?”
Keller did, and waited, gathering her keys and handbag so she could race out the door to make the funeral. She heard keyboard clicking as the liaison worked, excruciatingly slow. The woman was on prison time.
“I’m actually running late to the funeral, so I need to—”
“It’s really terrible about Dan,” the liaison said, not taking the hint.
“Yes, it’s disappointing the warden wouldn’t let him attend the funeral, but I understand it’s a drain on resources and—”
“Wait,” the liaison said. “You don’t know? No one notified you?”