For now, I will accompany Ryan to James’s parents’ home, where we will provide comfort by telling them how happy James was in his last hours of life. I will learn everything I can about the woman who was sent here to impersonate me. I will hold Ryan’s hand while he grieves the loss of his friend. Regardless of the harsh words, I know Ryan would rather James had not died in that car wreck last night. Death has a way of letting those hard feelings go.
But most importantly, I will finish what I started.
* * *
Two cop cars are parked in front of James’s parents’ house when we pull up. I knew this was a possibility, although I was hoping they had already come and gone.
Ryan parks on their street two houses down, the closest spot he can find.
The Bernards live in an older neighborhood on the other side of the lake from Ryan, where the houses were built in the mideighties, in various shades of brown brick with low-slung roofs and narrow driveways.
There is a steady stream of people walking toward the front door, just as we are.
“Why are there so many people here right now? This seems like the kind of crowd that shows up to the funeral home,” I whisper to Ryan as he maneuvers us through the crowd to the side of the house. I knew he and James grew up together and he spent a lot of time here as a kid so I’m not surprised he’s bypassing the front door.
“These are probably mostly neighbors and members of their church. It will be twice this at the funeral home visitation. A lot of these women keep a casserole in the freezer for just this occasion.” He looks back at me from over his shoulder and rolls his eyes, adding, “Plus, they’re here for the gossip.”
Ryan lets us in through the side door and we move down the narrow back hall toward the main living area. There are people wall to wall, and the low ceilings intensify the claustrophobic feel. A group of little old ladies wearing very official-looking name tags and matching smock aprons—probably the Bible brigade from the Bernards’ church, if I’m guessing right—scurry around offering water or coffee to those visiting as well as making sure the room stays tidy.
“They aren’t in here,” Ryan mumbles, then pulls me back into the hall and through another open doorway that leads to a small office.
Rose Bernard’s thin, frail body is wedged into the corner of an oversize chair, while Wayne Bernard is stuffed into a wingback chair next to her with his bum leg propped up on a small ottoman. One uniformed officer sits on a stool in front of them while two other officers stand behind him.
The cops’ attention pivots to us the second we fill the doorway.
Ryan and I both take a step back. “I’m sorry, we didn’t mean to interrupt . . .”
Mrs. Bernard lets out an anguished cry when she sees Ryan. “Don’t leave,” she cries. “How did this happen, Ryan? Was he okay at your house last night? Did something happen?”
Ryan moves into the room and crouches down next to her, his hands covering hers. “Nothing happened. He was great! They both were. I wouldn’t have let them leave if I didn’t think they were okay.”
The officers share a look with each other when they realize the deceased were at our house before the crash. We’ve gone from random visitors to possible witnesses to their state of mind before the accident.
Mrs. Bernard leans forward just enough that Ryan can embrace her. Mr. Bernard swallows thickly as he reaches over to clutch his wife’s hand in support.
I shouldn’t have come. I should have let Ryan handle this alone. Assured him this was a private matter, not a place for a stranger like me, but I was so desperate for any shred of information about the woman that I ignored the risk of what I could face here.
Now I realize how big my mistake is. The officer who was sitting on the stool now has his sights set on us. And because it seems like the only thing stopping Mrs. Bernard from completely falling apart is Ryan’s arms around her, the officer approaches me first.
“Hello,” he says, as he turns the pages in his notebook. “I’m Deputy Bullock. I’m gathering as much information as I can. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
I’m stuck. I can’t say I don’t know anything because obviously they were with us last night. And as much as I would like to answer those questions on my terms, now will have to do.
“Of course,” I say, then nod toward Ryan. “We rushed right over as soon as we heard what happened. James and Lucca were at our house last night.”
With his pen poised over the clean sheet of paper, he asks, “And your name is . . . ?”