Page 37 of Tapped

“I hate you.”

She smiles. “I love you. Your ass is looking fine today—perkier than normal. It must be all the clenching from the stress. Go get ‘em, tigress.”

“Evie.” I turn to narrowed blue eyes staring at me. Micah turns to the side and motions to the door. “I gave Hill Street Blues time off for lunch. Let’s hit it.”

I feel Naomi’s words hit my ear when she leans in and whispers, “Yes. Definitely hit that.”

If I wouldn’t look like a fool, I’d totally give my nurse an elbow to the gut. Instead, I ignore her, like the proper woman my parents raised me to be, and walk to the special agent.

I stop in front of Micah and look up. “Ready.”

He motions for me to go first and mutters, “Is anyone really ready for a funeral, Doctor?”

I move through the door as he holds it open for me. “Very true, Special Agent. Very true.”

10

FUNERAL

Micah

All I wanted was a conversation.

Date.

Location.

Who had access to her car leading up to the accident.

What I did not intend to do was walk into a church today for the first time since the big event that rocked my world.

This is a different church in a different decade.

The organ notes cut through the vast space, roll off the high ceilings, and shoot straight down my spine like an uninvited dark memory.

Fuck.

It doesn’t matter how long I’ve been away, a lifetime of going to mass is like riding a bike. I dip my fingers into the holy water to cross myself as Evie and I enter the sanctuary side by side. The place isn’t close to full, so I’m surprised when Evie tugs at my sleeve. I turn and she slides into the back row.

Interesting.

She won’t get an argument from me.

I follow and take a seat in the pew next to her where she’s slid to the far side. We’re literally in the back corner of the church. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she’s hiding.

Our conversation on the way here was exactly what I wanted. She gave me the information I was looking for about the accident. The location, the date, scenario. She rattled it off like it replays in her brain like a news ticker. Unlike this morning when she cried off her newly applied makeup, she was all business—focused and unaffected as she spewed every detail.

What she did not do was tell me who’s funeral we are attending.

Given the fact she hasn’t talked to another soul since we got here and we’re sitting in the dark corner, my guess is she’s not important to the rest of the loved ones crowded near the altar.

There’s no way I can sit through an entire funeral and wonder. When I lean to the side to whisper, the smell of floral and just plain clean soap hit my senses. “Are you going to make me sit here for the entire show without telling me who died?”

We’re dangerously close when her dark eyes turn to face me. She hands me the funeral bulletin she picked up on our way in.

Georgia Rosendale Bostic.

Born April 7, 1938.

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