Chapter 15: Fellowship Hall

Rafe texted me at six on Sunday morning.

The loft is very quiet. I keep reaching for the other side of the bed.

I read it three times and did not answer.

Then I put on my one navy dress and drove to a church basement in Brookline.

Eli came with me, in a clean flannel shirt, carrying a laptop bag.

"You are not going to apologize," he said in the parking lot.

"I'm not."

"Good. Because I brought a cable."

The fellowship hall had long tables with paper cloths, a ham, six kinds of casserole, and about ninety people in their church clothes.

Patrice stood at the head table in a mint-green suit with a microphone in her hand.

She had been waiting for me. She smiled when I came through the door.

"There she is," Patrice said, into the microphone. "Everyone, Casey has come to say something."

Every head turned.

Dillon stood against the back wall by the coffee urn. He didn't meet my eyes.

I walked to the front of the room. The linoleum squeaked under my shoes.

"Sister Patrice, may I?" I said, and held out my hand for the microphone.

She gave it to me with a gracious little nod, because she thought she had won.

"Good afternoon," I said. "I came because I was asked to apologize, and I would like to do it properly."

Patrice folded her hands.

"Three weeks ago, I signed a stack of papers at a bank. I was told they were for a joint checking account."

A few people nodded. They had heard this story, but not from me.

"I signed a deed. Half my grandmother's house now belongs to Dillon."

Murmurs went down the tables.

"Patrice told you I tricked him. I would like to ask her one question, with all of you here."

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