On a Friday morning, a little more than a year after she was last reported seen, June laid a black coat on the bed. “You can still change your mind,” she said. Claire looked at herself in the mirror. She still carried a discoloration from an old bruise near her jaw and a thin scratch beneath one eye.
Elise Grant drove her to St. Agnes in an unmarked car. They arrived through the side lane after the mourners had gone in. Rain moved softly across the churchyard. Through the stone wall, Claire could hear the first hymn rising for her, voices trembling over words they had been handed.
“My mother is in there,” Claire said. “I know,” Grant replied. “My sister thinks she’s burying me.” “I know.” Claire almost wondered if it would be more merciful to turn back then, just to save her loved ones the ugly truth of what was yet to come. Then she heard his voice from inside the church, steady and wounded, beginning to tell everyone what Claire had meant to him. Her hand closed around the church door handle. She opened it.