Chapter 15: The Gala Again

"The order covers the grave," Mr. Winslow said, in the cold of the parking lot.

"It does not cover the ledger, or my voicemail, or my mouth."

The surgeon was still talking in my ear.

"Then keep the box where nobody can reach it," he said.

"We bring it to the gala."

I looked at the green cloth cover in my arms.

"All of it," I said.

"In front of everyone."

"Then I carry it in," Mr. Winslow said.

"It should be my hands that put it on that stage."

I gave him the ledger and the tags, and he put them under his arm.

On Saturday night at seven forty, five pickups came up the drive of the Brookfield Lake Hotel in a line.

Dean drove the first one, and Hannah sat beside him in a dress the color of an October lake.

Forty drivers had parked along the gravel in their good shirts.

They stood in two rows by the front steps with their hands folded.

I stepped down from the truck in green silk with Frank's mother's crescent at my collarbone.

The shoes made me three inches taller.

The surgeon offered his arm on my left, and the youngest took the right.

"You're shaking," the youngest said cheerfully.

"I'm not."

"Your dress is shaking."

"Then my dress is nervous," I said.

Nobody laughed, but I felt the whole line of men behind me breathe out.

Janet's lawyer stood at the top of the steps with a clipboard and a face.

He was a tall man in a shawl-collar tuxedo, and he put one hand flat against the glass.

"Miss Winslow is not on the list," he said.

"Miss Kinsella," Dean said.

"I'm afraid this is a private event," he said.

"Mrs. Winslow has asked that the family of the person who committed this fraud remain outside the..."

"Good evening."

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