I was moving in a bubble composed of shock and grief, but some awareness began to leak through. I felt people’s eyes on me; word had obviously gotten around—thanks, no doubt, to Boomer and a few others—that I was Mary Jo Mayhugh, daughter of Ron and Evie, all grown up. I felt their unspoken but still intrusive questions, too, like thrusting elbows in a crowd.

I wanted to escape, fly away, forget there was ever such a place as Cactus Bend, Arizona, and feel my way through the rest of my life.

I would piece it together, bit by bit, task by task. Move out of Tucker’s place, where I’d been staying for the last week. Dig up dirt on Alex Pennington. Help Jolie with the move from Tucson to the little brick house she’d rented in Phoenix. Decide what to do with Bad-Ass Bert’s Biker Saloon.

I hadn’t been back to my apartment at all since the day I was released from the hospital; early on, Jolie and Tucker had picked up some of my clothes. Tucker’s condo had been a refuge, and he’d done all he could to make me feel welcome—but being there was like wearing unmatched shoes, neither one fitting. I’d checked my voice-mail messages periodically, nervously expectant.

There were no more death threats.

Just one call—from Brian Dillard, Heather’s former husband. She was in the hospital, under psychiatric observation, with an arraignment pending, he’d said sheepishly, and the kids were with his mother. Somehow, he’d saved the ticket for the slot machine credits I’d left behind at the casino, the night Geoff scared me off, and I could pick it up any time.

It wasn’t high on my priority list.

I shifted my attention back to the sad matter at hand.

Lillian’s coffin gleamed in the sunlight. Greer, Jolie and I each laid a white rose on top and whispered our goodbyes. The funeral home people would lower her into the ground later, I presumed, to spare our sensibilities.

I wanted to fling myself on that casket, like some frenzied gothic heroine, but I was afraid someone would sedate me if I did. I was in enough of a stupor without medical intervention to make it worse.

So I waited it out, standing there in the dress Greer had scrounged from the back of her closet, my eyes so dry they hurt, my throat pulled into such a raw knot that, once or twice, I thought I tasted blood.

Clive Larimer approached as my sisters and I were making our way back to the mortuary’s limousine.

“Barbara and I are having a few people in,” my uncle said quietly. “We were hoping the three of you would join us.”

I stared at the senator, unsure how I felt. It seemed an odd time for an invitation.

“Now?” I asked.