His remarks are brief but poignant. He tells a story about Charlotte as a small child that I’ve heard before. We were at the dinner table and Charlotte hit me. My mother told her that if she hit me again she’d have to go to her room. Without missing a beat, Charlotte responded, “Where do I go if I hit Ella when I’m in my room?” When the laughter subsides, my father says he felt sure back then that, with that type of mind, Charlotte would enjoy a prosperous career in the law. This elicits even more laughter, after which he segues to her gift for the written word, which became her true passion.
“I thought it would be fitting to end my remarks today by reading a short passage that Charlotte wrote, and which was selected by the person who knew Charlotte best—her sister, Ella.” He looks up and smiles at me. “Everyone who ever discussed writing with Charlotte knows all too well that Charlotte was famous for saying that her work was fiction and any resemblance to real people and events was purely coincidental. But in this case, I think, even maybe Charlotte would have conceded that some truth made its way into her prose.”
He pulls out a single sheet of paper from his breast pocket and smooths the page on the lectern. Then he reaches into his other jacket pocket to retrieve a pair of reading glasses.
My murderer has deprived me of very little. There are the years I will not live, but set against the vastness of eternity, the time I’ve lost is but a moment. What is forever is the same as if I’d lived another sixty years or more: those I loved will always be a part of me, and I will never cease being a part of those who loved me.
I did not want to speak at the service. I’ve said my good-byes to Charlotte in private, and I expect to speak to her daily for the rest of my days.
This means that, after my father’s words, the congregants pour out of the church and into the rain. It’s now coming down in torrents, and a sea of umbrellas burst skyward.
At the doorway to the chapel, I’m greeted by my old boss and mentor, Lauren Wright. I introduce her to my father, and she offers him the half smile befitting the circumstances.
“Thank you so much for coming, Lauren,” I say. “And for everything you did to help with the investigation.”
She nods, but this time doesn’t smile. “Of course. You’re family to me, Ella. I only wish . . .”
I know what she wishes. I wish it too. It’s the only wish I’ll probably ever have again.
The downpour is enough to dissuade all but a few from venturing to the gravesite, but approximately twenty people begin the trek to follow Charlotte’s casket, which is being wheeled across the muddy ground. My father holds an umbrella aloft for both of us. My arm is around his waist, both to be sheltered from the rain, but also because I enjoy feeling so connected to him. We walk like that for about a minute when I see the small tent set up at the grave. The ground is open, and men are placing the casket onto the bands that will be used to lower it to the bottom.
I feel a tap on my shoulder.
“I’m sorry to accost you like this,” a man says. A boy, really. “You don’t know me, but I was a friend . . . a very good friend of Charlotte’s.”
I do know him. It’s Josh Walden. It’s funny to think that we’ve never actually met, as all my encounters with him were from a distance. First through Charlotte’s description of his alter ego, Jason, then through the monitor when he was interrogated and polygraphed, and finally off in the distance at the Riverside Park event.
He looks like he’s wearing his father’s suit. It hangs off him in the shoulders, and the shirt puckers around the neck. His umbrella is one of the cheap ones sold on the street for five bucks. It barely covers him, and his shoulders are wet.
I turn to my father. “Go sit down. I’ll join you in a minute.”
When my father steps away, Josh places his umbrella over me. I lean closer to him so it covers at least part of him too.
“Thank you for coming today. I’m Ella.”
“Josh Walden,” he says. “I just wanted to say that I’m so very sorry for your loss. Your sister . . . she was the most amazing person I’ve ever met.”
“Thank you for saying that. She was amazing.”
“Did she ever say anything to you about me?”
I consider his question. Of the three men in Charlotte’s life, Josh alone did the right thing. Zach only cared about protecting himself. And Christopher, well, he got what he deserved. Although Charlotte’s fictional Jason was hardly a paragon of virtue, I have to remind myself that Josh is not Jason. I could be wrong, but I want so much to believe that Charlotte was right in letting Josh into her life.
“She did. She said that she thought you were a gentle soul and an amazingly talented writer. She also told me that she was very happy when she was in your company.”
He seems pleased by my white lie. He smiles again. “Thank you,” he says and then allows me to seek refuge under the awning.
The overhang at the gravesite provides shelter only for the two chairs reserved for my father and me. The minister pokes his head under its protection as well, but the rest of the mourners remain in the steady downfall, with only their umbrellas to shield them from the rain.
It’s only after I’m seated that I see Gabriel. He’s wearing a suit and tie, which I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him in before. His badge is nowhere to be seen. I smile at him and he returns the gesture, following it with a courtly bow of his head.
The graveside service lasts only a few minutes, and then Charlotte’s coffin is lowered into the hole. As I watch it descend, I can’t help but think about her first burial—in the suitcase in the East River. Although I had been determined not to cry today, I fail in that resolution.
Finally, it’s over. The minister dismisses us, and I walk out into the rain toward Gabriel. He quickly closes the distance and pushes his umbrella over my head until it’s covering far more of me than him.
I kiss him on the cheek. In that touch, I remember so vividly when our lips locked those years before.
“Thank you so much for coming today. It means more to me than I can tell you.”
“They say that this is the worst day, and it’ll get easier from here.”
“That is what they say.”
I nod to my father that he should go on ahead, and Gabriel and I walk together toward the parking lot.
“I come with good news,” he says after my father has put about ten feet between him and us. “Both investigations have been closed. Christopher Tyler definitely killed your sister. His credit card led us to the W Hotel on the night of the murder, and the security cameras leave no doubt that they both entered, but that he later left wheeling the suitcase.”
It hurts all over again. I know that’s foolish as there’s no doubt in my mind that’s what happened. Yet, just thinking about Charlotte being imprisoned in that suitcase moves me to tears—even though she’s now encased in a box buried underground.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I thought you’d—”
“No, I want to hear. You said both investigations are closed. Do you mean Jennifer Barnett?”
“No. That’s gone to Missing Persons. There’s no evidence that Christopher Tyler knew Jennifer Barnett, so he’s not responsible for that crime. No, I meant that we officially ruled Tyler’s death to be an act of self-defense.”
I nod. I hadn’t really given much thought to a different outcome. But of course, t’s have to be crossed and i’s dotted whenever someone stabs someone else through the neck.