Chapter 52
She felt awkward and out of place in her jeans and T-shirt, dusty from the road, but she kept her head high and made her way through the gravestones toward where the coffin, the gloss of the rich wood shining in the sunlight, sat above the open grave.
Pastor Keene was holding his Bible and standing away from the milling attendees, and in the solemn clusters she recognized a few faces from around town and some of the slightly older versions of the teenage football players she’d seen in the yearbooks and googled in the night.
As she picked her way toward Jamie’s parents, stern father stoic next to his veiled mother, she wondered where these friends had been when he was living alone in the motel out at the edge of town like an abandoned sick dog.
How soon after his decline did they fall away?
Tell themselves they’d check in on him when life settled down?
When things were quieter? Well, things were pretty fucking quiet for Jamie now.
She drew closer, people moving out of her way, side-eyeing the interloper among them. Five minutes was all she needed. Maybe they’d ask her to stay for the service, wrong attire or not. Otherwise, she’d come back and say her goodbyes to Jamie another time.
“What are you doing here?”
If she’d been hoping for any form of warmth or basic politeness from the Carlsons, that was lost in the cold disdain of those words. Mr. Carlson had moved closer to his wife. His skin was tanned from golf and his hands were manicured and the cuff links on his shirt were gold with diamond inlays.
“I’m Anna. I am—I was a friend of Jamie’s.”
“We know who you are.”
Anna ignored him, speaking instead to his wife. “I just wanted to give you my condolences. Jamie was kind. And sweet. And—”
“You didn’t know James.” Eleanor Carlson lifted her veil, her red eyes stark, all her warmth, all her heart, trapped in that wooden box.
“Don’t even pretend you knew my boy.” Her shrill voice was a pitch too loud in the quiet, ringing out across the barren fields, startling the other mourners into silence.
“Please, Mrs. Carlson. I—”
“He was doing so much better until you came along. He was starting to put it behind him. He was thinking about the future. Coming back to us.” Her bloodshot eyes filled with tears again, her whole body shaking with rage.
“No, he wasn’t. He was putting posters up. He wanted to raise awareness. He thought Lila’s killer was still out there somewhere.” Anna was defensive in the face of the accusations. “He wasn’t over it.”
“You encouraged him.” Mrs. Carlson stepped forward suddenly, as if she might gouge Anna’s eyes out, but her husband held her back and she burst into tears instead, crumpling into his chest.
“Haven’t you meddled enough?” he said coldly. “What kind of ghoul are you?”
“I’m sorry. I’ll go. I’ll go.” Her face burned. Ghoul. Maybe she was. Maybe it was madness after the thing. “I didn’t mean any harm.” The words sounded empty as she backed away, knocking into the edge of the coffin as she went.
“You’re not even from here!” Mrs. Carlson called after her, grief and anger blending into a perfect storm of hatred.
Anna turned and ran back the way she had come, pushing through the awkward, staring mourners, flushed and sweating.
I’m sorry, Jamie, she thought as she grabbed his scooter, kicking off to flee her embarrassment as the sheriff’s cruiser pulled up and he and Todd got out to join the funeral. I’m sorry.