For one bright, stupid second, my mind refused to make sense of it. All I could do was stare at the crystals flashing under the stained glass as she turned her head. Tiny shards of red and blue and gold danced across the pew in front of her. My father used to joke that the dress looked expensive enough to throw its own light. There it was, shining from the body of another woman while my father lay dead twenty feet away.
My feet started moving before I’d decided to confront anybody.
“Becca,” I said, the name coming out flat and strange in my own ears. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Rebecca Thornton turned around with the smoothest smile I’d ever wanted to slap off a face.
She was twenty-eight, maybe twenty-nine on a generous day, and worked in marketing at Grant’s firm. I’d met her twice at company events. She’d called me Natalie in that overly warm way women do when they want credit for friendliness without the burden of sincerity. She had glossy brown hair, expensive cheek filler, and a talent for standing a little too close to married men.
“Natalie,” she said softly, like we were meeting at brunch instead of my father’s funeral. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”