Chapter 4: Faith Coleman

Eighteen months and four days after I died, I made my husband wait forty minutes.

Weldon Harbor Partners had the eighth floor of a glass building on Main Street in Hartford.

I sat at a corner table in the coffee shop across the street and watched their windows.

At 2:00 I could see Neal pacing the conference room.

At 2:20 he sat down.

At 2:35 he stood up and straightened his tie in the glass.

At 2:40 I put on my coat and crossed the street.

I did not look like the woman in the church photograph.

My hair was cropped to a sharp silver-ash line above my ears.

I had put on ten pounds of muscle and eighteen months of anger, and I wore a charcoal suit that fit.

My lipstick was the color of a bruise, and I wore black-framed glasses with clear lenses.

When I opened my mouth, my voice came out lower than it used to, because I had practiced it every night in a rented kitchen.

"Faith Coleman," I told the receptionist. "I'm expected."

"They've been waiting, Ms. Coleman."

"I know," I said.

The conference room had a glass wall and a long walnut table.

Neal was already on his feet, with his hand out and his white teeth showing.

He was thinner than I remembered, and there were gray hairs at his temples that I did not recognize.

He took my hand in both of his, and his gaze went down to my collar and stayed there.

"Ms. Coleman, what a pleasure," he said.

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