She leads me into a small library off the foyer. She sits, gestures at the other chair, and pulls her cardigan tighter at the throat like she’s cold from the inside out.
“You have ten minutes,” she tells me. “I have a man from the funeral home coming soon. He wants to talk about the urn.” She laughs and wipes her nose with a tissue. “Do you know there are catalogs for urns? Like they’re just oh-so fun to shop for. Matte finishes and pebbled leather options. There’s a Tiffany one. Can you imagine?”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say robotically.
“Everyone’s sorry. I’m so f*****g sick of sorries.” She folds her arms over her chest and settles back in her seat. “I’d rather have some goddamn answers. Is that what you’ve come to give me, Mr. Satyrin?”
I nod. “I’m looking for the same thing.”
