“Robert Hart.” The living room shines attention on me, and I abandon hope of a quiet exit. “We’re heartbroken. It just doesn’t make sense.”

A sixty-something lady with a salt-and-pepper crew cut says, “Saddest thing ever.”

The big man says, “Sad and very, very weird, to tell you the truth.”

The salt-and-pepper lady introduces him. “This is Hank Skillman. He runs a summer program Nick just loved.”

“Oh, right,” I say. “Outward Bound?”

“Onward and Upward,” Hank corrects. “We were a huge part of Nick’s life.”

“Yes,” I say. “We’ve heard about you. Big fish.”

Elizabeth jumps in. “Of course, we can’t imagine how you’re feeling, Hank.” She looks around the room. “All of you knew him so well for so long.”

A middle-aged guy seated on the piano bench talks about the sports his kids played with Nick, and a woman in a business suit adds, “He was a wonderful team captain.”

“I used to babysit Nick,” a girl announces. “My parents were close with his parents.”

Elizabeth sits between the babysitter and suited lady, but my snake-in-the-throat shimmies, so I excuse myself to avoid vomiting on their round-robin eulogy. To the nearest stranger, I ask, “Bathroom?”

The stranger’s mouth is full of food, but he nods and points to the foyer, so I carry my plate and cup into the entrance hall, where I bypass the narrow door to the powder room and walk up the stairs instead, desperate for a square inch of privacy, but the door at the top of the stairs is locked and someone says, “Just a minute,” when I jiggle the doorknob. Moving along, roaming the hall, entering the first open doorway, setting my plate and cup on the nearest table, dropping my head between my knees, breathing deeply. The pit in my gut settles, and I realign, open my eyes.

Dowels are mounted on the wall, displaying rolls of kraft paper and colored foil. A sewing machine stands atop a fitted cabinet with unmarked drawers on either side. Acrylic cases stacked along the edge of the desk are labeled by bead type or sequin shape, wire gauge, and thread color. Wrinkled patterns cut from parchment paper are pinned to a strip of corkboard bolted to the wall. So this was Nick’s room, once upon a time. Now Naomi Miller makes jewelry and Christmas tree skirts in here.

Someone knocks on the open door. “Robert?”

I turn to see the big man. “Hank, was it?”

“That’s right.”

This time, I shake his hand. “I am so sorry. For your loss.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sorry if I snapped at you down there. Out of my head over this thing.”

“I understand.”

“I’m just confused,” Hank says. “Something had to have happened.”

“People do terrible, out-of-character things when they’re depressed.”