Maggie honestly hadn’t thought that far ahead.

She didn’t need to decide, because the door to the house flung open. The man was wearing a ball cap and sunglasses. He walked, head down. His gait suggested he was agitated. He said something into a cell phone.

They followed him to the main drag. It was easy to keep a safe distance. He was tall and skinny, and his hat drifted above the crowd on the main road. Sure enough, he went to the Moloko Bar, which looked different in the daylight. The place apparently didn’t open until the evening.

He waited out front, as if he were expecting someone.

Out came a woman, pretty. She wore shorts and a bikini top.

The man said something to her. She shook her head repeatedly.

“Let’s get a picture,” Maggie said. She held up the camera. It was too far away to get a clear shot, even if she zoomed.

“We need to get closer.” She got off the bike.

“No,” her father said.

“Come with me, keep your back turned. They’ll think we’re tourists.”

Her dad didn’t have a chance to object. Maggie pushed his bicycle’s handlebars, wheeling him backward so she could get the picture. She pretended to take a photo of her dad. His face was in the frame, but Maggie was really trying to get a clear shot of the couple.

They were in the shadows, the neon from the sign casting a glow over the woman. Just as Maggie was taking the shot, the man covered his face with his hand. The woman seemed to fix her eyes on Maggie.

“We need to go,” Maggie said. She turned, climbed on the bike, and started to ride away, her father right behind her. She didn’t look back.

CHAPTER 54

MATT PINE

Four coffins were stationed at the far end of the church, but it was the fourth one—the tiny wooden box—that caused each and every mourner to gasp as they entered First Presbyterian Church. The stained glass, the same windows Matt used to stare at bored out of his mind on the Sundays of his youth, dulled the light, fitting the gloomy occasion.

The place was packed, though Matt didn’t recognize many of the bereaved. Several had the grooming of television news reporters, hair helmeted with too much hair spray. Faces too tan for the spring. His aunt said they were going to keep out the media and gawkers and grief junkies, but there was only so much they could do. Despite the Pines’ persona non grata status, several townspeople filled the pews.

As Matt paced the long aisle, he could feel the eyes on him, hear the murmurs as he walked toward the four caskets. He just looked ahead, feeling distant, vaguely out-of-body.

When he reached the front, Aunt Cindy patted the open space on the pew. Next to her was his grandfather, with a faraway expression, his Jamaican nurse looking more grief-stricken than Charlie. Next to Grandpa was the governor, Mom’s old friend. With the prison refusing to allow Danny to attend the ceremony, that was it, the Pine contingent.

After lowering himself to the pew, Matt felt hands on his shoulders. He turned and it was Kala. Next to her, the rest of the Misfit Toys. All were dressed conservatively, something he’d never seen before in all their time together. Even Ganesh was in a suit—an expensive one, by the looks of it—the contrast with his unruly hair and unshaven face giving him the look of a tech mogul. Curtis’s head was bowed in prayer. Woo-jin looked like a giant next to Sofia, whose makeup was already streaked down her face. Matt gave them a nod and turned back.

He stared at the caskets again. They were simple, understated. Despite her beauty, Matt’s mother had hated flash. When his aunt had emailed him the catalog of coffins, it had taken Matt only a moment to choose.

The old minister—the same one from all those years ago—approached the front of the church and waited for the crowd to settle. Then, in a weak voice that again brought Matt back to when he was a boy, the minister began his remarks.

Something else hadn’t changed. Matt was able to tune out the guy instantly. Instead he focused on the caskets.

He swallowed at the smallest box. Matt said goodbye in his head. Tommy, I’m sorry the world won’t get more of you. You were loving, hilarious, and you came when we needed you most. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Goodbye, Little Man.

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?”

“Notified me of what?” Keller said, not raising the obvious question of who the hell would notify her of something, other than the liaison she was on the line with.

“Oh, sweet Jesus.” The woman paused. “Dan Pine was attacked yesterday. They’re not sure he’s gonna make it.”

* * *