But I couldn’t do that. Like it or not, this was all my fault, and I was going to face every single sickening second of it, including Peter Vargas’s funeral.

   I got to my feet, buttoned my black suit jacket, grabbed my long black trench coat from the rack in the corner, and left my office.

   The bank was closing early for the service. The other workers were riding together in groups of twos and threes, but I was all alone as I got into my car, cranked the engine, and pulled out of a nearby parking garage.

   I left the busy downtown streets behind and drove out to the more rural part of Ashland until I reached Blue Ridge Cemetery. I steered my car into the line of vehicles crawling into the cemetery, pulled off to the side of the access road, and parked on the grass, along with everyone else.

   I got out of my car and followed the other mourners to the grave. Several rows of metal folding chairs had been arranged in front of a silver casket with a lovely spray of red and white roses draped over it. A picture of Peter Vargas was propped up next to the casket, and I stared at the face of the man I’d gotten killed. Black hair, brown eyes, friendly smile. Peter and the other guards hadn’t deserved to be murdered just because I’d been stupid enough to trust the wrong person. I should have been the one lying in that casket. I would have been, if not for Gin, Bria, and the rest of our friends. But here I was, still aboveground, while Peter was about to be lowered into it forever. An icy wave of guilt surged through my body, numbing me from the inside out.

   In addition to being well liked at work, Peter had been well respected in the community, involved in all sorts of activities, including volunteering as a coach for several kids’ sports teams. More than two hundred people had shown up for his funeral, and the chairs in front of the casket quickly filled. Everyone spoke in soft, sad voices, saying what a shame it was that such a nice, decent, hardworking guy was gone before his time.

   I wholeheartedly agreed with them, although I didn’t join in any of the conversations. No one wanted to talk to me. Besides, the bank workers were giving me more hostile stares than ever before, so I decided that the best thing to do was to stand off by myself to the right of the casket, out of everyone else’s way.

   A murmur rippled through the crowd, and Isabelle Vargas appeared. She was still wearing the same black pantsuit and heels she’d had on at the bank, along with a long black coat. She’d freshened up her makeup, but her eyes were even redder than before, and I could tell that she’d been crying again.

   A man who looked just like Peter walked beside Isabelle, escorting her to the center chair in the first row of mourners. He was Peter’s brother, and I thought back to my conversations with the guard, trying to remember his name. It came to me a few seconds later. Paul Vargas.

   But the worst part was the other person walking beside Isabelle, a little boy about three years old. Leo, Peter’s son.

   He too looked just like his father, with a messy mop of black hair and big brown eyes. Leo held his mother’s hand, his head swiveling back and forth as he stared at all the people gathered around the grave and the casket. A frown creased his tiny face, and it was obvious that he didn’t really understand what was going on and why everyone was so sad and quiet.

   Isabelle sat down, scooped up Leo, and settled him on her lap, kissing his forehead, smoothing down his hair, and hugging him tightly, just like a loving mother should. Emotion clogged my throat, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. All I’d wanted was a chance to get to know my own mother, and all she’d given me in return had been pain, heartache, misery, and death.

   Leo looked around at all the people again, then smiled, perked up, and pointed to the portrait sitting next to the casket. “Daddy!”

   That one innocent word shattered my heart.

   And it must have done the same to Isabelle’s, because she brought her hand up to her mouth and choked back a sob. She quickly wiped away a couple of tears that streaked down her cheeks, bent her head, and whispered something to Leo. The boy squirmed around and rested his head on her chest, and Isabelle started rocking him back and forth, trying to soothe him and herself.

   The funeral went the way they always did. The minister saying prayers and offering words of comfort, people staring solemnly at the casket, friends and family wiping away tears of grief. I just stood there, too cold and numb to do anything else. I couldn’t even cry. I didn’t have the right to cry. Not when Peter was dead because of me.

   The service only lasted about twenty minutes, although it seemed like an eternity. The minister said a final prayer and tipped his head at Isabelle.

   “Isabelle would like to invite everyone back to the house for a celebration of Peter’s life,” the minister said in a solemn voice. “There will be food and refreshments, and Isabelle would appreciate hearing stories and memories of Peter.”

   My heart twisted, and I looked through the crowd of mourners at Stuart Mosley, dreading what I would see. Sure enough, the dwarf gave me a sharp nod, a clear sign that he expected me to go to the gathering, even though I wouldn’t be any more welcome there than I was here. But it wasn’t a request, so I sighed and nodded back.

   A line formed in front of the casket, with each person taking a rose from the spray and saying their final good-byes to Peter. Isabelle went first, holding Leo’s hand again, Paul right behind her. Tears streamed down her face as she stared at her husband’s portrait; but she squared her shoulders, gripped her son’s hand a little tighter, and moved into the waiting crowd of mourners, accepting their condolences and good wishes.

   Isabelle glanced over at me as she walked by, surely thinking that I was just another person who’d come to pay his respects. When she realized who I was, her lips curled with disgust, as even more tears cascaded down her face. She hurried away from me, gently pulling her son along in her wake.

   Paul Vargas also knew exactly who I was. He too gave me a disgusted look as he followed his sister-in-law and helped her into a waiting car. And he wasn’t the only one. Pretty much every single person except Stuart Mosley gave me an angry glower as they all left the grave and headed for their vehicles, but I lifted my chin and stood my ground, accepting their hate, disgust, and loathing.