Rita got it for her at Kim’s Dresses in Forest Hills because Lisa couldn’t function at that time. It was a simple cotton wrap, knee length, three-quarter sleeves with a modest neckline.
Black.
Lisa put it on and stood before her full-length mirror, which Bobby had fastened to the inside of the closet door for her. The mirror used to stand in the corner.
How many times did I bug him to screw it to the closet door? Then one day—surprise. Done. He was like that, turning little things into gifts.
The dress fit. In fact, it was a bit loose. She’d lost a few pounds, but it worked. She slid her feet into low-heeled black shoes. Her hands shook a little, giving her trouble with the clasp when she put on her pearl necklace, a birthday present from Bobby.
She got it, adjusted it. When she looked into the mirror the full impact hit her and her knees weakened. She gripped the closet door to steady herself. Of course, this is what she’d worn to Bobby’s funeral.
The official uniform of the grieving widow.
She let the tears come.
Will it ever stop hurting? Help me through this, Bobby, because I have to do what I have to do.
Ethan surfaced in the mirror, watching from her bedroom door.
“What’s going on, Mom?”
She continued facing the mirror, blinking back her tears. “I’m getting my things ready.”
“For what?”
“Vicky and Eve will pick me up in the morning to go to the funeral for one of the people who got hurt.”
“Do you have to go?”
“Yes, to show my respect. It’s just for the day. Rita will be here. Sweetie, we talked about this yesterday. Are you okay? How’s school going?”
“Good.”
“Don’t you have some homework to do while I’m gone?”
“Just geography, we have to draw a map.”
“Better get started today. Now, you haven’t told anybody about us helping the police and stuff.”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Mom, we’re still going up to the cabin like you promised, right? We have to.”
“Yes, Ethan. Nothing’s changed, okay?”
“Okay.”
“So what’s bothering you, then?”
“I don’t want to move to California, Mom. It’d be like leaving Dad forever.”
The hurt in his voice was too much for her and she went to him, dropped to her knees and took him into her arms.
“We can never ever do that.” She put his hand over his heart, covering it with hers. “He will always, always be with us, wherever we go. Your father is part of us, part of you, Taylor and me. Wherever we are, he is with us and will always, always be with us. Do you understand that, honey?”
“I think so.”
“Good.” She smiled, brushing at her tears, kissing him softly, seeing so much of Bobby in his face. “That’s good.”
The next morning, Agents Vicky Chan and Eve Watson arrived just before seven. It was surreal for Lisa, saying goodbye to Taylor, Ethan and Rita just as she did a week ago.
Because this time she did it as a federal witness to four murders and this time she did it in mourning clothes.
She took a deep breath.
Chan and Watson wore blue conservative blazers and skirts.
Aside from threads of small talk, the car was quiet as Chan pulled on to I-95. The drone of the freeway traffic fit with the funereal mood and residual tension. After all that she’d given the FBI, Lisa was feeling shut out from the case. She had wanted to ask the agents if the FBI was any closer to making an arrest, but killed the thought. Earlier, they’d made it crystal clear to her that if something had happened they would not tell her. They’d got what they needed from her—at least that’s how she interpreted it.
Any new information Lisa got came from the press, particularly Jack Gannon—that good-looking wire-service reporter. Her face reddened. She shouldn’t be thinking about him like that. Anyway, this Gannon guy knew things, she thought as they rolled through suburb after suburb.
Lisa was happy they had finished with the hotel, glad to be home with the kids without the FBI living with them, smothering them. She had declined Dr. Sullivan’s offer to accompany her to the funeral. “Events like this can be traumatic. They can rip open wounds, resurrect pain,” Dr. Sullivan cautioned.
Like I didn’t know.
Lisa was determined to face this on her own terms.
She had resumed piecing her life together. She’d already put in a few shifts at the supermarket. Funny, when they made her a new photo ID to replace her old one, it felt as if she had started over. Here was the new Lisa, her first official “after-Bobby” photo.
None of the girls at the supermarket pressed her too hard for missing a few days. Most of them knew she’d gone upstate to sell the cabin. And when she added the cryptic “unexpected family issues,” nobody inquired. Some may have speculated that it probably had something to do with the kids or the cabin. For the most part, everyone tended to leave Lisa alone, and her boss was happy to have her back. The FBI agent’s funeral fell on her day off, so it worked out. With the exception of Rita, no one knew she was the FBI’s key witness to the armored car heist.
Being back at her checkout was both therapeutic and depressing. Lisa had glanced at the older cashiers, the near-retirement lifers, then at the new girls, and for the first time she saw the timeline of her life at the Good Buy Supermart. This was all there would be for her. She thought of what she’d endured; realized how life was so fragile, so short. Then she thought of her old dream and her chance to start a new chapter of her life in California.
It’s scary, but we’re going to do it. It’ll be best for all of us. Life’s too short to live it with regrets.
About an hour after they’d left Queens, they approached Bridgeport, Connecticut. Chan guided them to Saint Patrick’s Church using the GPS unit on the car’s dash. Traffic was backed up already, uniforms from Bridgeport P.D. were directing.
“It’s not just the director who’s coming from HQ,” Watson said as they inched along North Avenue, “it’s the U.S. Attorney General and a ton of dignitaries. I heard they were expecting two thousand people from law enforcement.”
“Full ceremonial honors,” Chan said, nodding to the corner of the parking lot and the satellite trucks and news crews from New York, Boston, Hartford, Philadelphia, New Haven and many others, including some of the national press from Washington, D.C.
After parking, they’d come up to Morrow and Dr. Sullivan talking with others gathered near the large overflow canopies. They’d been erected on the lawn next to the church over rows and rows of folding chairs, big-screen monitors and speakers linked to microphones set up in the church.
“How are you holding up?” Dr. Sullivan asked Lisa.
“Okay, I guess. I’m taking it moment by moment.”
“That’s all anyone can do.” Morrow squeezed her shoulder.
“How is Jennifer Dutton doing?” Lisa asked.
“Not so well, as you might imagine. But she wanted to be here for Greg. Her father is at her side and her doctor is here,” Morrow said before he was approached by a grave-faced man.
“Excuse me, Agent Morrow, but the director is ready for your briefing now. He wants to make a press statement afterward.”
After Morrow left, Lisa, Chan and Watson entered the church. Seating was prearranged; theirs was midway, left side, at the main aisle. The church smelled of candle wax and fresh linen. Whispers and nervous throat clearing echoed. A choir sang hymns. Lisa looked at her funeral card and the program, which was outlined in calligraphy.
Agent Gregory Scott Dutton smiled at her from the cover.