The priest nodded. “Of course.” He patted the back of her hand before moving to the opposite pews where the partners sat. “I’m sorry for your loss. The Lord works in mysterious—”
“Of course he does,” Moore said.
“So mysterious,” Hernandez agreed.
“Big man upstairs with his plans,” Worthington said.
The woman—the stranger he didn’t recognize—snorted, shaking her head.
Wallace glared at her.
The priest moved on, stopping in front of the casket, head bowed.
Before, there’d been pain in Wallace’s arm, a burning sensation in his chest, a savage little twist of nausea in his stomach. For a moment, he’d almost convinced himself that it’d been the leftover chili he’d eaten the night before. But then he was on the floor of his office, lying on the imported Persian rug he’d spent an exorbitant amount on, listening to the fountain in the lobby gurgle as he tried to catch his breath. “Goddamn chili,” he’d managed to gasp, his last words before he’d found himself standing above his own body, feeling like he was in two places at once, staring up at the ceiling while also staring down at himself. It took a moment before that division subsided, leaving him with mouth agape, the only sound crawling from his throat a thin squeak like a deflating balloon.
Which was fine, because he’d only passed out! That’s all it was. Nothing more than heartburn and the need to take a nap on the floor. It happened to everyone at one point or another. He’d been working too hard as of late. Of course it’d finally caught up to him.
With that decided, he felt a bit better about wearing sweats and flip-flops and an old T-shirt in church at his funeral. He didn’t even like the Rolling Stones. He had no idea where the shirt had come from.
The priest cleared his throat as he looked out at the few people gathered. He said, “It’s written in the Good Book that—”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Wallace muttered.
The stranger choked.
Wallace jerked his head up as the priest droned on.
The woman had her hand over her mouth like she was trying to stifle her laughter. Wallace was incensed. If she found his death so funny, why the hell was she even here?
Unless …
No, it couldn’t be, right?
He stared at her, trying to place her.
What if she had been a client of his?
What if he’d gotten a less than desirable result for her?
A class-action lawsuit, maybe. One that hadn’t netted as much as she’d hoped. He made promises whenever he got a new client, big promises of justice and extraordinary financial compensation. Where once he might have tempered expectations, he’d only grown more confident with every judgment in his favor. His name was whispered with great reverence in the hallowed halls of the courts. He was a ruthless shark, and anyone who stood in his way usually ended up flat on their back, wondering what the hell had happened.
But maybe it was more than that.
Had what started out as a professional attorney-client relationship turned to something darker? Perhaps she’d become fixated on him, enamored with his expensive suits and command of the courtroom. She told herself that she would have Wallace Price, or no one would. She’d stalked him, standing outside his window at night, watching him while he slept （his apartment being on the fifteenth floor didn’t dissuade him of this notion; for all he knew, she’d climbed up the side of the building to his balcony）。 And when he was at work, she’d broken in and lain upon his pillow, breathing in his scent, dreaming of the day when she could become Mrs. Wallace Price. Then perhaps he’d spurned her unknowingly, and the love she’d felt for him had turned into a black rage.
That was it.
That explained everything. After all, it wasn’t without precedent, was it? Because it was likely Patricia Ryan had also been obsessed with him, given her unfortunate reaction when he’d fired her. For all he knew, they were in cahoots with each other, and when Wallace had done what he did, they’d … what? Joined forces to … wait. Okay. The timeline was a little fuzzy for that to work, but still.
“—and now, I’d like to invite anyone who would like to say a few words about our dear Wallace to come forward and do so at this time.” The priest smiled serenely. The smile faded slightly when no one moved. “Anyone at all.”
The partners bowed their heads.
Naomi sighed.
Obviously, they were overcome, unable to find the right words to say in order to sum up a life well-lived. Wallace didn’t blame them for that. How did one even begin to encapsulate all that he was? Successful, intelligent, hard-working to the point of obsession, and so much more. Of course they’d be reticent.
“Get up,” he muttered, staring hard at those in the front of the church. “Get up and say nice things about me. Now. I command you.”
He gasped when Naomi rose. “It worked!” he whispered fervently. “Yes. Yes.”
The priest nodded at her as he stepped off to the side. Naomi stared down at Wallace’s body for a long moment, and Wallace was surprised to see her face screw up like she was about to cry. Finally. Finally someone was going to show some kind of emotion. He wondered if she would throw herself at the casket, demanding to know why, why, why life had to be so unfair, and Wallace, I’ve always loved you, even when I was sleeping with the gardener. You know, the one who seemed averse to wearing shirts while he worked, the sun shining down on his broad shoulders, the sweat trickling down his carved abdominal muscles like he was a goddamn Greek statue that you pretended not to stare at too, but we both know that’s crap, given that we had the same taste in men.
She didn’t cry.
She sneezed instead.
“Excuse me,” she said, wiping her nose. “That’s been building for a while.”
Wallace sunk lower in the pew. He didn’t have a good feeling about this.
She moved in front of the church on the dais next to the priest. She said, “Wallace Price was … certainly alive. And now he’s not. For the life of me, I can’t quite say that’s a terrible thing. He wasn’t a good person.”
“Oh my,” the priest said.
Naomi ignored him. “He was obstinate, foolhardy, and cared only for himself. I could have married Bill Nicholson, but instead, I hooked up to the Wallace Price Express, bound for a destination of missed meals, forgotten birthdays and anniversaries, and the disgusting habit of leaving toenail clippings on the bathroom floor. I mean, come on. The trash bin was right there. How on earth do you miss it?”
“Terrible,” Moore said.
“Exactly,” Hernandez agreed.
“Put the clippings in the trash,” Worthington said. “It’s not that hard.”
“Wait,” Wallace said loudly. “That’s not what you’re supposed to be doing. You need to be sad, and as you wipe away tears, you talk about everything you’ll miss about me. What kind of funeral is this?”
But Naomi wouldn’t listen, which, really. When had she ever? “I’ve spent the last few days since I got the news trying to find a single memory of our time together that didn’t fill me with regret or apathy or a burning fury that felt like I was standing on the sun. It took time, but I did find one. Once, Wallace brought me a cup of soup while I was sick. I thanked him. Then he went to work, and I didn’t see him for six days.”