I walked to the picture to pay my respects, straightened it and picked up a discarded napkin someone had left beside it. Then I’d headed for the refreshment table, eying the unappetizing array of day-old cupcakes and brownies and wishing I’d grabbed one of those fresh muffins at the coffee shop. As I pretended to graze, I watched Scranton work the room, moving from person to person, offering fake-sad smiles, one-armed hugs and backslaps before quickly moving on, gaze lifting, now and then, to the clock on the far wall. A pretty brunette in her early twenties dogged his steps anxiously, as if she might misplace him. The college-age daughter, I assumed, until he veered over to a young red-eyed woman huddled in the corner with an elderly couple, and made a show of embracing her, before she slipped his grasp and hurried to the washroom. The elderly couple hurried after her, but not before unleashing lethal glares on Scranton.

At a mutter beside me, I turned to see a woman, silver haired but no older than late forties, skewering Scranton with the same deadly look.

“That was Bethany, I suppose,” I murmured, gaze sliding after the disappeared girl. “Joyce’s daughter. I’d seen pictures, but they were old school ones…”

“That’s Beth. Poor thing. And Joyce’s parents with her.”

I nodded at the brunette following Scranton. “Is that…? I thought there was only one daughter…”

The silver-haired woman snorted.

“Ah,” I said. “Not a daughter, then.”

As a group approached the table, she waved me to a quiet corner. “Can you believe he brought her here? The divorce not even final?”

Joyce Scranton—victim in life as in death. Stripped of her dignity even at her memorial. I swung a glare on Scranton, my nails digging into my palms, then shook it off and reminded myself why I was here: information.

“The divorce settlement was pretty much done, though, wasn’t it? I haven’t—” I forced a blush. “I hadn’t talked to Joyce in a while. I kept meaning to but…”

“We always think there will be more time, don’t we? Well, there wasn’t any time left with the settlement, either, though Joyce was finally showing some spunk, digging in her heels and asking for her fair share. She didn’t expect to get it, but she was making the effort.”

I spent a few more minutes with the woman, a school friend of Joyce’s, then moved on, hoping to get a better insight into the victim. The results were mixed. I certainly got the impression she’d been well liked. Yet even this memorial was like the media reports of her murder—the circumstances of her death overrode the importance of her life. After an hour of “What kind of madman is doing this?” and “Oh, God, if this can happen to Joyce, is anyone safe?” I headed outside to meet Jack.

“I like Scranton for it.”