“At the funeral. Are you fucking kidding me?” snapped Bruxton. He’d finally told me his first name a week earlier and, after I’d laughed, I realized I’d never be able to think of him by any name but his last. If it’s any consolation, there was a very popular leading man in the 1930s with the same name, I’d told him, and he’d glared at me. Is that why you’re such a tough guy, because you have such a… a… non-tough-guy name? I’d asked. You’re too damn smart for your own good, he’d growled. I thought of that now as I watched him wrench the recorder out of the man’s hand, throw it down and crush it under his heel.

“Police brutality. I’ll report you,” the man said.

“Have fun,” said Bruxton. “Want to get better acquainted with police brutality?”

The man backed away slowly.

“I need some air. Let’s go outside,” I announced.

“There’s gonna be more of those cockroaches out there,” Jesse cautioned.

I sighed. I’d thought I was a part of the media. Jesse had, too, since he was a photographer. But the circus that had swirled since my sister’s death had been reported bore no resemblance to what I thought of as journalism. I’d sometimes wondered how I’d grown so lazy, swanning from city to city and resort to resort, penning frothy articles instead of the investigative pieces I used to dream about. But travel writing was a class act next to the tabloids. “There won’t be any cameras, though,” I answered. “Let’s go.”

I’d seen a sign at the cemetery’s entrance when I’d first visited, a week ago. At the time, the photography ban made no sense. What if a person wanted to keep an image of a loved one’s grave? It turned out that Woodlawn allowed that. Their ban was targeted at those who profited from filming other people’s grief. I was grateful for that now. When we stepped outside, reporters swarmed.

“There she is!”