“He probably killed my mother. She died of an overdose when I was in high school.”

“Did you tell the police?”

“I told them everything, but there’s nothing they can do about it now.”

He walked back to his car, feeling as though he might never see her again.

Harry spotted Caitlin at the funeral Mass before she saw him. He and Paul had arrived very early to St. Julia’s, a pretty stone church with a circular stained glass window, and taken a seat far at the back. The church was quiet, a few guests filtering in, whispering among themselves. The music began—Harry recognized it as Schubert’s “Ave Maria”—and a few minutes later, there was Caitlin, dressed in black, walking down the aisle on one side of a woman who was clearly her mother. On the other side was a tall, gangly boy, probably a brother. They walked toward the front of the church. A minute or so later a lone middle-aged man came down the aisle. Tears streaked his face, and Harry thought that was probably the estranged father. He sat in the second row, alone. Music continued to play as the church filled. Paul and Harry had to slide down their pew to allow room for late arrivals. When the Mass began, several people were standing toward the rear of the church.

Harry had never been to a Catholic funeral before, and he found it disconcertingly formal but comforting, as though the rote prayers and the familiar hymns connected Grace’s death to all the other deaths within her faith. Paul went up to receive Communion, but Harry stayed put, suddenly wishing he hadn’t come. He felt a little like an impostor; he’d barely known Grace, and he barely knew Caitlin. Why was he here?

After the service, Grace’s body was carried out of the church, accompanied by a modern-sounding hymn about being raised up on eagle’s wings. Something about the corny song, and the slow procession of mourners, and Harry was crying, Paul’s arm around him. They were among the last to leave the church. The family had already departed, and several groups of young people lingered outside. Cigarette smoke wafted through the air.

“Bar?” Harry said to Paul.

“You don’t want to go to the reception?”

“Not really.”

“Bar it is.”

They walked into downtown Ann Arbor, a wide street flanked by square brick buildings, and numerous college bars, and picked a place called the Library that turned out to be much more of a sports bar than its name implied. They each got a shot of Jameson and a Guinness, Paul saying there was no other drink choice after a Catholic funeral, then loaded the jukebox with as much 1980s music as they could find, and claimed a booth next to a Big Buck Hunter video game. Harry checked his phone.