“Hi, Walt,” the man said, taking his hand in a warm embrace. “How did you know Jason?”

Walt swallowed hard, the tape on his neck stretching against the strain. “I was his partner.”

“Oh,” said the woman. “We’re Jason’s parents.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Walt said. “Jason talked about you all the time, sir. About your time in the Bureau. He spoke about both of you. I’m really sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” Jason’s father said. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine, sir.” Walt released the man’s hand. “This is Jim Oliver. Jim heads up the field office here in New York.”

“Your son was a great agent and a good friend to us all,” Jim said.

“Thank you.” Jason’s father smiled. “Have you met our daughter-in-law?” he asked Walt.

“No, sir,” Walt said.

“She had to use the restroom,” Jason’s mother said. “She’ll be right back. I’m sure she’d want to say hi.”

Walt smiled and gave a quick nod, beginning a thirty-second span of painful small talk that felt like it lasted an hour. All Walt wanted to do was take a quick knee in front of the casket, pretend to pray, and then get the hell out of there.

“Here she comes,” Jason’s mother said, pointing over Walt’s shoulder.

“Sweetheart,” Jason’s father said, motioning with his hand. “This is Jason’s partner.”

Walt turned and felt his knees buckle when he saw Jason’s wife.

“Meghan,” Jason’s father said. “This is Walt Jenkins.”

Walt imagined the terrified look on Meghan’s face was a mirror image of his own. She stopped a couple of strides away from him, unblinking and unmoving, her mouth agape. It was obvious to everyone—Jason’s parents, Jim Oliver, and anyone else within eyeshot of Walt and Meghan—that they knew each other. That they had been sleeping together for the past year and were in love was less obvious, but only slightly.

“Have you met before?” Jason’s father asked in a credulous voice.

“Uh, no,” Walt managed in a strained voice on the brink of cracking. He held up his hand to wave, but it looked more like an act of surrender. “I’m . . .”

He placed a hand on his bandaged neck and felt the dampness of blood seeping through the gauze.

“. . . . . . . . . very sorry for your loss.”

It was all he could manage before he turned and walked quickly to the back of the room, through the atrium, and into the dark hallway. He pushed open the door and squinted against the sunlight as he sucked for air. His lungs hurt and his chest heaved. He stumbled to his car and fell behind the steering wheel. Starting the engine, he pulled away even before he had the door closed.

CHAPTER 33 - Manhattan, NY Friday, July 2, 2021

CHAPTER 33

Manhattan, NY Friday, July 2, 2021