Funerals were strange things. People came to comfort you, but more often than not, you ended up comforting them. They didn’t know what to say, so you offered them the words instead. And in this case, it was stranger still, because she hadn’t had a relationship with this woman outside of familial obligation in years. Maybe ever.
Her gaze dropped to her hands folded tight in her lap.
It was normal, she supposed, to take stock of your own life in moments like this. To measure what mattered. She just hoped that when her life ended, she would be more than an obligation to people.
Her thoughts slid, unbidden, to Murphy.
People like Murphy mattered. People like Murphy would leave this world surrounded by those who loved him. There would be fond stories and laughter between the tears. Therewould be people who knew him.Not just his name or his stats, buthim.
What would people say about her?
She was good at her job. Ruthlessly good. She made everyone else look good. But if she died tomorrow, who would know Hillary Lawson? Who she really was? Besides Sydney, no one.
The truth of it sat heavily in her chest. A sobering, suffocating weight.
But she couldn’t let herself sink into those thoughts, not when there was still work to be done.
The living room was already buzzing, full of mourners with hushed voices and careful smiles. She slipped through, checking in with the caterers, making sure the trays were replenished, the drinks flowing, much easier to work than feel.
And then she spotted them again.
Sasha. Conner. Cash. And Murphy.
She hadn’t expected them at the funeral. Shecertainlyhadn’t expected them here, in her childhood home, among the icy perfection of her family.
Her breath hitched, and she ducked into the kitchen before anyone could notice.
The caterers glanced up at her with polite curiosity as she strode in, trying to look composed. She grabbed the first thing within reach—a muffin from a basket—and tore at the wrapper.
Only when it was in her hand did she realize.
A muffin.
Of course.
The thought of Murphy had sent her fleeing in here, and now here he was again, in the form of something as simple as a pastry.
Hillary set the muffin back down, unopened, and reached for a glass of cold water instead. She took a long sip, bracing herself.
Then she turned, lifted her chin, and walked back out into the hall.
It was time to say hello.
25
MURPHY
When the car rolled up the long drive, Murphy leaned forward to stare out the window.
Calling it a house didn’t feel right. This was anestate.Stately, sprawling, the kind of place you saw in glossy magazines or period dramas, not real life.
He’d grown up in a middle-class neighborhood in Boston. Brick houses crammed close together, chain-link fences, playing street hockey with the neighbors. This? This was a different planet.
Nerves buzzed in his chest, threatening to knock him sideways. But with Conner and Cash walking in beside him, he straightened his spine. He wanted to stand like they stood. They were confident, steady. Men who looked like the kind of men someone like Hillary could lean on.
Inside, the entryway gleamed like a museum. High ceilings, heavy chandeliers, walls hung with oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors. His gaze darted everywhere, caught between awe and disbelief.
A man in a dark suit appeared, taking his coat before he could even shrug it fully off, then offered a tray of drinks.Murphy blinked down at the crystal glasses, every part of him shouting he was not prepared for this.
