‘The Lord has a plan for all of us,’ he said as Vera stifled a sob and I pressed a tissue into her hand. I hated when people said things like that, as if it were all part of some cosmic agenda; the only people saying that were the ones who’d won the cosmic lottery.

As he droned on, I focused on the photo of John sitting on an easel. We’d chosen it together, flipping through his pictures on Facebook until we came upon this one: him, laughing, eyes wide-open, in the plaid shirt he often wore around the house. Vera had selected a Keith Haring quote to open the ceremony.

The minister walked from the podium, and Vera stood, ready to speak. She took the tissue I’d given her, swiped beneath her eyes, and walked to the front. At the lectern, she paused, breathing deeply as she unfolded a sheet of paper with shaking hands. Her nails were a pale gray color, she’d pulled her hair into a perfect topknot, and she wore a charcoal-gray wool dress that nipped in at her waist, one I’d helped her pick out. Everything about her seemed more pronounced – her cheekbones standing out against her gaunt visage, her eyes puffy and wide, her blond hair pulled back tight against her scalp. Somehow, standing in front of us like this, she made even the most awful grief look beautiful – a modern Grace Kelly.

‘I met John in New York City,’ she said, eyes darting around the room. ‘I know a lot of people say this, but for us, it was love at first sight.’ Voice wavering, she bumbled through the story they’d told me together, of meeting in Chelsea, of feeling, immediately, that something had changed. She explained how she’d schooled him in the bar game of the evening and he’d loved her even more for it. She talked about seeing him grow through the years, and his strengths, from painting to wood-chopping to listening to her every single day. She talked about his grief, losing all the family he had so young. His family, who was absent, of course, his parents gone, his brother, who Vera had taken the time to call, not being able to make the trip without an escort.

As she spoke, I stole a look behind me. The showing was small, only twenty people or so, people I mostly didn’t recognize, I imagined from their old Manhattan life.

McKnight sat in one of the back rows, his eyes locked ahead. He adjusted slightly, and as he did, I took a quick, shallow breath.

There, just behind him, in the very back, was Sam Alby. I stared at his thick neck, his gray-brown hair, brushed neatly for the occasion. Anger swelled in my chest – when had he come in? I couldn’t believe he had had the nerve to come at all.