States of Grace by Mandy Miller (top 100 books of all time checklist .TXT) 📕

Here I am, back in church for the first time since Iraq, the hellhole which robbed me of all faith and almost my life.

“You don’t have to come in with me.”

“You kiddin’ me? I don’t ever get to dress up these days,” he says, jumping out. “But, now that you mention it, what is it you think you’ll learn from this bunch of stiffs?” He claps his hand over his mouth. “Sorry, bad choice of words.”

I stifle a laugh. “I need to speak to a kid called Joe Harper. I figured, since he was Serena’s boyfriend, he’d be here at her funeral.”

“Who’s Joe whatshisname?”

“Zoe said she was with him when Sinclair died.”

“Holy Mother of God. Like maybe she didn’t do it?”

“Seems that way.” I straighten my pant leg so Oscar’s hidden.

Vinnie straightens his tie. I’m warmed by the openness in his face, a look of peaceful acceptance that comes only with forgiveness. I can’t say I’d feel the same in his shoes. I’d probably still be raging at the years stolen from me. But all I can do now is keep the promise I made to myself back then, that no matter how guilty a person looks, I’ll never stop asking questions until I find the truth. Or at least until I’m sure no one’s lying. It’s the least I can do to make my amends.

We slip in the side door of First Presbyterian Church and into a rear pew, one of the few that’s unoccupied. I’ve never seen him in a suit before. Head held high, he’s debonair, an international man of mystery.

The sanctuary is packed with black-clad mourners of all ages. Teenagers sit book-ended by their parents, pulling on starched collars or pantyhose, the mourning attire a far cry from their usual rock band T-shirts and skinny jeans. A pimple-faced boy waves at a girl, only to have his hand swatted down by his father.

It’s been a long time since I darkened the door of a church, but I’m no stranger to Presbyterian décor, and First Pres, as the locals call it, is no different from the New England churches of my youth. Not spartan, but not fancy either, restrained enough to make the well-heeled congregation believe their generous offerings are going to worthy causes, and not into gilded pulpits.

A minister clad in a simple black cassock and purple tippet stands in front of a carved marble altar, arms wide, and proclaims, “Welcome, family and friends. Welcome one and all to celebrate the life of Serena Price.” His tone is one employed by all preachers in times of grief, one intended to reassure the faithful that the sad event is but another inevitability in the circle of life. A tone intended to console, but also to celebrate the life of the deceased, whatever that means for the eighteen year old lying in the white casket up front, for a life cut short before there was much at all to celebrate.

I wonder what the rows and rows of mourners are thinking. What trite condolences they will offer Serena’s family in the receiving line after the service, when the only thought on their minds will be, “This could have been my child.” Are they hankering for Zoe’s head, as if such a thing could ever set things right? Still, an eye for an eye does bring with it a certain reassurance that justice does exist.

In the five days since the discovery of her body, Serena Price has become a national obsession. Even the national morning shows sent reporters to recount how Serena, a beautiful young woman and star student, who played the violin and led St. Paul’s soccer team to a state championship, was murdered in cold blood. How she was shot by a friend, a classmate at a fancy private school. How the bullet had been fired from same type of gun Zoe is accused of using to kill Brandon Sinclair. How Zoe threatened Serena by text. It goes without saying, they sidestepped the issue of the OxyContin found in Serena’s system, a fact that would have been front and center had Serena been a black kid from the projects, not a white one from Rio Vista. But they didn’t skip the part about Zoe being mentally disturbed, not to mention about to be tried on another murder committed with the same modus operandi.

Still nagging at me like a hangnail is what, if any, connections were there between Sinclair and Serena? Were they, in fact, involved, or is Zoe imaging it? And Gretchen. Is it a coincidence she owns the clinic where Sinclair was arrested, and is also the mother of one of his counseling clients?

I stand and sit and pray with the congregation, on automatic pilot from years of forced practice at boarding school, but my mind’s zig-zagging all over the place like a lab rat on speed.

Reilly summed up his theory in a glib sound bite on NBC6 News. Asked why Zoe would have killed Sinclair, he said, “We don’t have to prove motive. No matter what they say on TV, it’s not an element of the crime of murder. After almost thirty years on the job, I’ve learned that murder always comes down to one of three things—money, jealousy, or just plain evil. In this case, I’m going with jealousy.” A nice sound bite for sure, but something about what Reilly said strikes me as too convenient. He has a penchant for the CliffsNotes version of crimes. The easy answer, facts be damned. If he said the world is flat, I would double check. But, then again, like Sonny said, Reilly and I have a history, and I’ll never trust a word he says.

Could she have been that jealous? Angry, for sure, but angry enough to kill? Why not get rid of the gun that killed Sinclair like the one used to kill Serena, if she killed Serena?

“Everyone, please stand for the final reading, the twenty-third psalm.”

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow