Page 117 of The Art of Dying

“I got you a dress.”

“The kids don’t have anything.”

“I got the kids something.”

I stopped pacing and looked up at him and then to Agent Lindy. “He’s really gone?”

She didn’t crack a smile. “I don’t make a habit of repeating myself, but yes, Mrs. Kitsch. As of thirteen-hundred hours yesterday morning, Dostoevsky is deceased. I’ll meet you there.”

She turned and walked out, letting Kitsch close the door behind her.

“Where’s my dress?” I asked, unable to conceal my excitement.

Kitsch clapped his hands and held out his arms, and I jumped into them, wrapping my legs around his waist.

“What’s going on, Mommy?” Emily asked, running out of her room.

“Good news?” Dylan asked.

“Well,” I said, sliding down Kitsch’s body as he lowered me to my feet. “We’re going to a wedding!”

“Yay!” Emily said, clapping.

“A wedding?” Dylan said, wrinkling his nose.

Kitsch lightly pushed me toward the bedroom. “You got an hour, baby. I’ll get the kids ready. Your dress is hanging in the very back of the closet. And one more thing,” he said, waiting for me to stop and turn around. “I bought us a house in the Springs. Next block over from Harbinger and Caroline and the kids.”

My eyes filled with tears. “Babe…” I began.

“Lock it up! Fifty-nine minutes!” he yelled with a smile.

I ran to the bedroom and pulled the dress from the closet, laying it on the bed, and giving myself just a few seconds to admire the navy-blue satin, think about what necklace to wear since it was strapless, and to be surprised at Kitsch’s fantastic taste before running into the bathroom to start on my hair. By the time I got to my makeup, I struggled with my trembling hands. No one would be angry, and they would be just as happy to see me as I was them, but I wasn’t prepared for the overwhelming stage fright coming over me.

I stepped out to see Kitsch fastening Emily’s shoe strap. He looked up and whistled, then stood.

“Good gravy! Look how beautiful Mommy is!”

“Pretty!” Emily said, clapping.

“Kitsch?” I said. “Can I… talk to you for a second?”

Kitsch looked down at the kids and then back to me, shaking his head. “No, Karen. The kids are excited. I’m excited. You promised.”

“I did,” I said, holding my hands in front of me. “And I’m going to keep it, but… it’s a wedding. This day is about Trex and Darby. They’ll never get this back. It will be an interruption, so how about I… please let me wait until the reception.”

Kitsch sighed, closed his eyes, and let his head fall back. His eyes opened and he stared at the ceiling and then he looked back at me. “I thought you were cancelling altogether. Yes, baby. Yes, of course that’s fine. Are you ready? You look ready. Can we go to the truck?”

“We can,” I said, grabbing my purse.

Kitsch held the door open for me and then jogged around the front, while I buckled my seat belt, reminded the kids to fasten theirs, and checked my reflection in the visor mirror.

“You look incredible,” Kitsch said, sliding into the driver’s seat.

He sped more than I would’ve liked, but he handed me his phone and let me look at the photos of our new house in Colorado Springs to distract me. He parked with fifteen minutes to spare and then kissed my cheek. “See you in there?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Promise?”

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