“I know you didn’t,” I said.

I squeezed his arm, fast, the briefest touch, not giving him time to flinch.

“I’ll fix this,” I said. “You’ve said that to me many times. Now it’s my turn. I’ll fix this.”

“Take my car.” Gabriel struggled for a wan smile as he nodded for me to take his keys from his jacket pocket. “Just be careful with it.”

The cops tried to intervene, but Gabriel told them he’d only picked up the vehicle that morning, so it wasn’t evidence. The bill of sale was in the glove compartment.

As soon as the patrol car pulled away, the reporters swarmed.

I had every intention of making a calm statement. Admittedly, my past record for this had not been good, but I wasn’t going to walk away without supporting Gabriel. Except it was like trying to kneel and pray in the middle of a rugby mob. When I opened my mouth, I got shouted down. When I tried to step back, I got jostled and blocked. Just as I was ready to give up, the crowd began to part, and I heard a familiar “Hey!” and “Move!” When they saw who it was, they stepped aside, much like a herd of ravenous swine makes way for the guy carrying the fresh bucket of slop.

Ricky elbowed through to me.

“Gabriel—” I began.

“I heard,” he said, his face grim. He took my arm and turned to the guy nearest us. “Move!”

Getting me out of that crowd wasn’t as easy as getting himself in. But he managed, while also keeping his middle finger raised in front of me.

The crowd wasn’t as big as it seemed, maybe a dozen reporters and beyond them a layer of curious mourners, which pissed me off more than the journalists. The media was just doing its job, but the others were supposed to be there to honor James.

I whispered to Ricky, “I need to make a statement.” He could have said, What the hell? He’d rescued me from the mob and now I wanted to engage it? But he only nodded and led me to Gabriel’s car, where he positioned us with our backs to the vehicle, blocking anyone from coming up behind us, while also securing an escape route.

“Listen up!” Ricky said, his voice ringing over the shouted questions. “Ms. Jones is going to give a statement, and if you want to hear it, you’re going to shut the fuck up. Got that?”

A murmur of outrage from the mourners. Obviously, joining a mob at a funeral was fine, but God forbid someone should swear.