There would be no autopsy and the funeral was scheduled for Thursday. I couldn’t believe it was going to happen so soon, as if his parents were waiting for this to happen, as if the grave had been dug all those years ago and was just waiting to be filled.

I didn’t cry when Reece took me to my apartment or when I stacked the paintings I’d done for Charlie in the corner of my studio. Nor did I really notice that my place had been wired for security, all the windows and doors. Actually, I did notice but I just didn’t care.

It was Thursday morning, as I slipped on the only pair of black dress pants that I owned and were now a little too loose, that I noticed Reece hadn’t gone to work at all this week. Smoothing my hair back into a low ponytail, I squinted at my reflection. The purple streak had faded, becoming barely noticeable. What was glaringly visible were the dark shadows under my eyes.

Slipping my glasses on, I left Reece’s bathroom. He was in the kitchen, fixing his black tie. Freshly shaven and shoulders broad in his suit, he looked good. Real good. I guessed that even though I felt so incredibly hollow, all my lady bits were still functioning.

He looked up, his head tilting to the side as he studied me. We really hadn’t talked much since Saturday. It wasn’t for lack of him trying. Obviously, he’d been here this entire time without me even asking. The same with the funeral. Not once did I ask him to go, but he was ready before me, and I lo—­I appreciated him for that.

I stopped at the edge of the kitchen counter. “You’ve been taking off time from work.”

Reece nodded slowly as he fixed the cuffs on his suit. “Yeah. I didn’t want you to be alone.”

The burn in my chest was renewed. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I have the time. Plus everyone is understanding.” He came around the counter, stopping in front of him. His eyes searched mine intently. “I go back to my shift next week.”

I swallowed—­swallowed hard. “Thank you. You’ve been . . . you’ve been so good about everything.”

Reece cupped my cheeks with both hands. “Babe, that’s just what someone does in this situation.” His thumbs trailed along my cheekbones, a gesture I looked forward to. “I’m here for you.”

My gaze flicked away and then I squeezed my eyes shut as he hauled me against his chest, wrapping his arms around me. I was stiff for a moment. I wasn’t even sure why, but then I clung to him, my fingers clawing through the clothes to get a piece of him—­to hold a piece of him.

“It’s not fair,” I murmured against his chest.