CHAPTER 39 - ARIANNA
CHAPTER
Arianna
E VERYONE IS STARING AT ME. There’s so many eyes burrowing into the back of my head, it’s impossible to guess the amount. Probably hundreds, because the crematorium is full.
Steve Farrow was well-liked, so I can’t blame anyone for looking at me.
After all, I saw the newspaper myself this morning.
I don’t think I was supposed to, but no one stopped me when I left the bedroom and wandered down into the main building.
As I hadn’t heard a word from Red since he left last night, I was getting concerned that he’d miss the funeral, so I went to see if there was any sign of him.
A newspaper was just sitting there on the side, so I took it. In a way, I wish I hadn’t.
Another glimmer of unease rumbles through me, wondering what my parents thought when they saw it. Papà has a morning paper delivered each day without fail, so they would definitely have seen it by now.
The photograph - one of several, spoke volumes too: Red’s arm tightly around my waist, my hand on his chest; me looking up at his beaming face with pure enchantment.
He looked so handsome, so goddamn hot. Just seeing the photo made me sweat. And if I didn’t know any better, our expressions looked realistic, making the pictures extremely damning.
We looked jubilant - ecstatic, even. And thoroughly convincing.
A far cry from the mood now or since Red entered the casino reception to leave for the crematorium.
Now we’re seated here and Steve’s service is well underway, my eyes fall to rest on Red’s knee that’s brushing against mine. We’re so tightly packed there’s little room to move, and the closeness makes me claustrophobic. Plus, I’m hot - really hot. It’s stuffy, and I feel sick.
Whether it’s from lack of food, nerves or pure exhaustion, I don’t know, but I can’t wait until this is over.
I’d planned to ask Red about the news article on the way here, but he barely said two words to me.
Crammed into the back of the funeral limo with his brothers and Del wasn’t an opportune time.
Discovering he’d returned to the casino hours earlier but chose to stay in his office, shows me exactly where I stand.
I’m not sure what else I expect? Perhaps a bit of courtesy when not in front of an audience?
I focus on the large coffin holding Steve Farrow not five feet away.
Sitting on the front row has its benefits but also its downsides, and I try not to let the sobbing woman on the other side of the aisle affect me.
She must be Steve’s wife, and I dare not look at the two children clinging to their distraught mother.
The two men with her, that judging by their looks from the few times I saw Steve, are his brothers. They’re giving me stares to freeze blood. I don’t need to feel any worse.
It’s like I have a banner attached, reading, “He’s dead because of me!”
Steve’s death is my fault. None of this would have happened if I hadn’t run to Red in the first place. I wouldn’t have entertained it had I not taken it upon myself to kill Roberto.
My clammy hands wring in my lap, leaving sweat marks on my black dress, but I can’t stop.
Why did I wear this dress, anyway?
The split halfway up my left thigh exaggerates the shine of my glossy stockings, and I know Red’s eyes are on my legs.
It’s not the first time, and once again, I sorely regret my choice of attire.
Out of all of those beautiful clothes he insisted on buying, I should have worn something more suitable.
There was a black skirt suit and a trouser suit in the selection.
I could have worn either of those, so why didn’t I?
My fingers twist the silky material. Did I wear this dress because I naively thought it the best choice or I am a shallow, vain creature who, having run away from the mess I’ve caused, am attempting to justify it by prettifying myself?
Or was it because I hoped Red might notice...
My heart thumps harder, the now familiar spiral of panic within me gaining traction.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep, calming breath, but it doesn’t work.
The vicar’s voice continues to drone, and everyone still stares at me.
Just when I’m convinced I’ve reached the point of no return and will run from this funeral to hide somewhere until it’s all over, a hand reaches for mine, fingers knitting with my own.
My eyes open, but I don’t look up. I don’t need to.
Instead, I stare at Red’s hand. It’s strong, with a smattering of dark hair on the back. The edge of yet another tattoo pokes from under the white cuff of his shirt. His hand is warm, surprisingly soft, yet powerful.
His thumb rhythmically strokes mine, giving me that electrical surge I get every time he touches me. It’s strangely reassuring and has the unusual effect of calming me. That’s until I remember how many people he’s probably murdered with those same hands?
But then, who am I to talk?
But what I did isn’t me . I’d never have done what I did to Roberto if...
I’m suddenly pulled to my feet. Bewildered, I look up as Red’s arm moves to rest around my waist, his free hand holding the order of service between us, open at the correct place. “Hymn Six. Sing.”
The words blur as the music starts up. Being able to lean against Red’s hard, unmoving frame for support is a godsend.
The hymn begins and Red’s deep and surprisingly pleasant singing voice rumbles through me, making goosebumps prickle my skin as I mime my way through the first verse.
His body presses close, and I want to touch his muscles through his tailored suit. Instead, I concentrate on pretending to sing.
He’s wearing that aftershave again too, and I worry how I’ll get it out of my clothes and hair. Even once he’s not with me, that scent will make it like he is. He’ll be everywhere around me, and there will be no escape from the heightening attraction I don’t want to feel.