SEVEN
I woke up with a throbbing headache. The blinds were closed, but I could tell it was still daylight. I threw off the covers and sat up.
I heard someone talking in the other room.
I got out of bed, straightened my dress, ran my fingers through my hair, and then walked into the other room.
Greg Douglas was standing in the middle of the room talking on the phone. He waved at me and smiled. He was still as beautiful as he had been when I had last seen him—nine years ago? He and his wife Lizzie had attended the same grief counseling group for parents that Hayword and I attended for a while. Greg and I often pretended to go out for a smoke, and then we’d sit in the courtyard talking. Sometimes we shared a drink from a flask one of us had. We hadn’t seen each other often, but I had alwa
