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At noon, she’d finally just stopped in the middle of the cosmetics section on the main floor. Salespeople swarmed around them. A woman was closing fast on her to squirt her with perfume, when she said, “This is enough, Dane. No more. I want to go home. I want to change. I want to go to Saint Bartholomew’s and say good-bye to Father Michael Joseph.”

Dane, who’d never in his adult life shopped for more than eight minutes with a woman, said, “You’ve done well—so far. All that’s left is some makeup.”

“I don’t need any makeup.”

“You look as pale as that mannequin in lingerie, the one with the bloodred lips and that red thong that nearly gave me a heart attack. At least some lipstick.”

“I’ll just bet you noticed how pale she was,” Nick said, and turned to the Elizabeth Arden counter.

And so Dane found himself studying three different shades of lipstick before saying, “That one. Just a touch less red. That’s it.”

Dane finally turned in the pew to look over his shoulder. So many people, he thought. Not just priests today, like at the wake, but many parishioners and friends whose lives Michael had touched. Archbishop Lugano and Bishop Koshlap both stopped and spoke to him, each of them placing his hand on Dane’s shoulder, to give comfort, Dane supposed. He was grateful for their caring, but the truth was he felt no comfort.

He watched Bishop Koshlap stand over Michael’s coffin, and he knew his eyes were on Michael’s face. Then he leaned down and kissed his forehead, straightened, crossed himself, and slowly walked away, head bowed.

Dane stared down at his shoes, wondering how well they had hidden the bullet hole through Michael’s forehead.

Michael was gone forever, only his body lying in that casket at the front of the church. A huge sweep of white roses covered the now-closed coffin, ordered by Eloise because Michael had loved white roses. Dane hoped, prayed, that Michael knew the roses were there, that he was smiling if he could see them, that he knew how much his brother and sister, and so many people, loved him.

But Michael wasn’t there and Dane didn’t think he could bear it. He focused on his shoes, trying not to yell his fury, his soul-deep pain out loud.

DeBruler, DeLoach—he just couldn’t get the names out of his mind, even here, at his brother’s funeral mass. A sick joke? His anger shifted to the murderer who was somewhere down in LA, someone connected with that damned TV show. He turned when he heard his sister Eloise’s voice behind him. He rose again, kissed and hugged her, shook her husband’s hand, hugged his nephews. They sat silently in the row behind him.

Archbishop Lugano spoke, his deep voice reaching the farthest corners of the church. He spoke spiritual, moving words, words extolling Michael’s life, his love of God, the meaning of his priesthood, but then there were the inevitable words of forgiveness, of God’s justice, and Dane wanted to shout there would never be any forgiveness for the man who killed his brother. Suddenly, he looked down to see Nick’s hand covering his, her fingers pressing down on him, smoothing out his fist, squeezing his hand. She said nothing, continued to look straight ahead. He looked quickly at her profile, saw tears rolling down her face. He drew in a deep breath and held on to her hand for dear life.

Other priests spoke, and parishioners, including a woman who told how Father Michael Joseph had saved not only her life, but her soul. Finally, Father Binney nodded to him.

He walked to the front of the church, past Michael’s coffin, hearing gasps of surprise throughout the church, for he was the very image of his brother. It was difficult for people to look at him and accept that he wasn’t Michael. He went up the steps to stand behind one of the pulpits. It was only then that he saw that the church was overflowing, people standing three and four deep all around the perimeter, filling the south and north transepts, even out beyond the sanctuary doors.

And Dane thought, Is the murderer