The cab stops at a catholic church in a wealthy part of town.
We put on our black hats as we walk towards the black gates, the black dresses almost touching the ground. The exterior and interiors of the church scream of elegance and extravagance. Marble pillars. Marble floors. Huge windows. 16ft oak doors. Just excessive.
For a famous writer like Rooney Lane, I'm shocked that the rows of pews are mostly empty. The only people in attendance are close friends and family. His family really managed to keep the suìcide a secret.
A priest is standing at the altar, conducting a mass. The countable people turn to glance at us when we make an entrance. Lana grabs my hand as we take a seat on one of the empty pews.
"The woman scowling at me," she whispers. "That's Rooney's mom. I bet she's not
