This time I did laugh. “And apparently the heat is affecting your perception. Just get in the damn car.”
I’D BEEN MORE than right about the expected turnout. The location of the funeral had been changed at the last minute to the municipal auditorium, since none of the churches in the area had anywhere near sufficient capacity to handle the number of people who wished to pay their respects—even with Brian a suspect in Carol’s death. I found a spot against the wall and did my best to blend in and stay unnoticed, though I wasn’t having too much success with Special Agent Ryan Kristoff standing beside me in full-fledged FBI mode.
The line for the viewing snaked throughout the auditorium, and I couldn’t help but think that the place would have been best served by having a setup with ropes and poles like the ones for the rides at Disney. I didn’t join the queue. I’d never had a desire to look at the carefully waxed and made-up faces of the dead, and I also felt no desire or need to offer my regrets to the grieving parents. I didn’t know them, they didn’t know me, and there was no need to make the line even longer, in my opinion.
I casually scanned the crowd. About every third person was a police officer—either from Beaulac PD or from neighboring agencies. Brian had been fairly well-known and had also worked with the sheriff’s office for a time, so I could understand why so many officers were here. But I had to force myself not to roll my eyes at the insane number of political hangers-on that streamed in. This place was a local lobbyist’s wet dream. I mentally tagged every parish and city councilman, darn near every courthouse employee, the entire DA’s office, the mayor, constables, judges, justices of the peace …
I finally gave up trying to track who was attending. Face it, everyone is here. But at least that gave me more of a crowd to hide in.
Unfortunately, though, not enough of one. I stiffened when I heard the loud whisper off to my side, clearly meant to be heard.
“Too bad the last funeral was complete bullshit.”
I clenched my jaw, refusing to give the speaker the satisfaction of looking over to see who he was. Besides, I didn’t have to look. Detective Boudreaux’s redneck twang was distinctive even in a stage whisper. Dickhead, I thought murderously, and shoved my hands into my pockets to hide the fact that they had tightened into fists.
My tension must have been palpable. Ryan turned his head and gave me a questioning look.
“It’s nothing,” I said softly. “It’s only a couple of people being idiots. It’ll blow over.” I still couldn’t fathom why anyone would think I had faked my death to get attention, but I knew there was no accounting for the stupidity of some people.
His eyes narrowed and then his gaze lifted toward Boudreaux—or so I assumed, because I still wouldn’t look over.
“Who’s the fat fuck standing next to the pimple-faced fuck?” he asked in a low calm voice, as if he were asking what time lunch would be.
I flicked the quickest of glances toward Boudreaux. “The fat fuck is Pellini. The pimple-faced fuck is Boudreaux.” I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter. Ignore them.”
Ryan made no response, his gaze sweeping the rest of the room. “I’m sorry, Kara,” he said after a moment.
“About what?”
A flicker of annoyance and regret passed over his face. “I didn’t realize that anyone honestly thought you’d faked your death. I thought it was only a couple of idiots.”
I forced myself to shrug. “It is only a couple of idiots. Don’t sweat it. It’ll blow over. Eventually something else will happen that they can sink their teeth into and they’ll forget all about it.”
His mouth tightened. “Right. They’ll forget all about it.” I could feel the tension coming off him.
I sighed softly, exceedingly grateful when the service started. I was even more grateful when Jill came up to me, reaching for my hand and giving it a squeeze. I smiled at her, suddenly aware of how lucky I was. It was too damn easy to fall into a cycle of oh-poor-me.