James Deacon blinks and mutters something about being sorry or being misunderstood. I think he’s just angry that he’s being cut out of a fat commission on a high-priced, throwaway box.

“What about a mausoleum?” he asks, rallying. “It would be nice if there was a place you and your little girl could come every now and then to remember her. We have several—”

I cut him off. “We’ll remember her just fine on our own. I’m spreading her ashes in Hood Canal, where she died. It’s a place that she loved. She didn’t care much for marble. In fact, when we redid our kitchen, she specifically told our contractor that marble was out of the question.”

“Oh, I see,” he says. “I guess you aren’t going to need any upgrades for the memorial service.”

There isn’t going to be one, I think, so, no, I guess not.

“I’m still thinking about that,” I say. “It happened so fast. Not really sure what I’m going to do.”

I don’t want to look like a complete ass. Yet I’m pissed off at Sophie right now. I’m angry with her for a thousand and one things. Some I don’t want to think about. Some I can’t get out of my head. I don’t feel up to celebrating her life. I know people expect me to, but grief is funny. It gets mixed up with residual feelings that don’t just go away because someone is dead.

“Most people have services within a week,” he says, a little hopefully.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, turning to leave.

“Do you want to look at some packages before you go?” he asks, opening up the brochure and smoothing it flat. “Give you an idea, sir?”

I give him a look. It’s a hard glare, actually. “No, thanks. But I would like to know when the cremains will be ready.”

He looks surprised. A new look for him, I think.

“We’ve had her on hold because of Mr. Flynn’s insistence,” he says, “but now that you’ve cleared all that up—how you want to align her interment with her expressed wishes—we’ll have everything ready for pickup tomorrow.”

“That’s great,” I say. “I’ll text you my home address. You can deliver, right?”

“Most people want to send someone,” he says, again doing that baffled expression he offers up a hundred times a day.

“Most people haven’t lost their wives to a murderer who dumped the body in the water. Jesus, man, you are making this harder than it needs to be. You really are.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Yes, we can have Mrs. Warner’s cremains delivered.”

I give him a perfunctory nod.