The tall man, about Bram Sr.’s age, who stopped in front of me to step up to the grave next seemed familiar. Hair colored dark to cover the gray, a door-to-door salesman’s practiced smile, paired with the expensive leather shoes and crisp suit of a stockbroker. Every nod and gesture he made looked practiced. Most of my grandmother’s friends were in the arts, and a strong vein of authenticity ran through them. This guy was as fake as a politician.

Between one breath and the next, I knew where I’d seen him before: on the internet. I had googled him just the night before, in fact.

Senator Taylor Wertheim.

I froze, immobilized by his sheer audacity. How dare he come here?

Then hot rage filled me, and I lurched forward without a plan. At the same time, Bram Sr. swayed next to me and tumbled. He crashed to his knees before his grandson could catch him, his walking stick shooting out in front of him.

The carnival band in the back started another lively tune.

“‘Beer Barrel Polka’?” Someone a few rows behind us barked a laugh.

Time stretched, a Hollywood special effect. In slow motion, right in front of me, Wertheim tripped on Bram Sr.’s walking stick and tumbled headfirst into Violet’s grave.

Around us, people gasped in horror.

“Help, dammit!”

I was the closest. I crouched and offered my hand, the former senator atop the coffin no longer distinguished looking, but stunned, bruised, and disheveled. I grabbed his outreached hand, others stretching to support him from the side.

I heaved as hard as I could, looking down at his upturned face. Anger glinted in his eyes that some fool had done this to him. And then all I could see was the old photo I’d found on the internet, his self-satisfied smirk as he was leaving the library. I let my hand slip. I’d held most of his weight, so despite the others, he crashed back into the coffin.

“Don’t move, Senator!”

I was pushed out of the way as more men rushed to assist.

“His nose is bleeding!”

Trouble was, no one could jump down next to him, not without stepping on the coffin lid, which nobody dared.

I covered my face with my hands, making stricken noises, and backed away, all the way to my parents.

My father muttered, “Oh, dumpling.”

My mother shot me a look that said if we weren’t at a funeral, she’d be shouting at me so loudly, damned souls could hear her all the way in hell.

I hung my head, the picture of contrition. “I was just trying to help. He’s too heavy.”

Mom scrambled forward, calling for my father to lend a hand.

Bram Sr. and I exchanged a glance, Innocents-R-Us stamped all over us.

Utter pandemonium all around.

And the band played on.