I simply nodded, walking behind Ryan as he escorted Claire to the front steps, bypassing the endless line of weeping friends and family. As we passed them, some recognized Ryan and shook his hand. Seeing him seemed to upset some of the women, and even some of the men fought back tears as Ryan traded quiet words during a short hug. Once they acknowledged Ryan, their expressions changed to curiosity, evaluating the small young lady in the black, leather dress with pointed-toe stilettos.

Each person we passed offered a pained expression for Ryan, and then regarded Claire with bewilderment. Claire’s dress was long-sleeved, with a respectable crew-neck line. Her skirt was short, but an inch longer than mid-thigh. Maybe it was her beauty that struck them, or the black stilettos that shot up from the ground, turning into a slithering snake with a shiny, turquoise eye on the stainless steel heel of her shoe.

The ensemble was something only Claire would dare wear to a funeral, but the look fit her. Ryan didn’t seem to mind. Before we reached the doorway, Ryan took Claire’s hand in his, and led her down the aisle. She glanced back at me, unsure of how to react.

We walked to the front of the sanctuary, seated behind the family, but on the first row of police officers that served with Kit Anderson. Ryan sat between Claire and me, making the situation even more uncomfortable. The pianist worked the keys, and a solemn song echoed throughout the church. Two rows ahead, in the center of the pew, two small children sat on each side of a woman. A man sitting in front of Claire reached forward to touch her shoulder. She patted his hand, and then squeezed her young son closer.

My fingers touched my lips. “Oh my God,” I whispered.

“Yeah,” Ryan said, leaning into my ear. “That’s his wife, and his two kids. His little girl is three. His son is seven.”

I couldn’t hide the horror in my eyes as I looked to Claire. She was impervious, lowering her chin as a gesture for me to remain calm. Each second after that moment was an eternity. The eulogy, the service, the songs. Once the prayer began, I scrambled from my seat, ignoring those I forced to stand or slide their legs over while I side-stepped to escape.

The doors pushed open, and the brisk air in my lungs felt like the first time I’d breathed in over an hour. The railing was the only thing keeping me erect while I struggled to catch my breath.

“Nina, Jesus!” Claire said. She grabbed my arm, steadying my weak knees. “You just ran—not walked—ran out of the funeral of a murdered Providence police officer! Why don’t you just tape a target to your back?”

“He had babies! A family!” I cried.

“You have a family, too,” Claire said. “We just happen to have better aim.”