By the time Kro reached Lake Street, evening had settled into that gray, exhausted light that seemed made for funerals.
The address was easy enough to find. The atmosphere was not.
Even before she stepped out of the car, the heaviness of the place met her—the line of vehicles parked along the road, the low murmur of gathered voices, the air around the beautiful house made ugly by grief. She had arrived only ten minutes later than planned, and already the last available parking space had nearly vanished.
Kro shut off the engine and sat there a moment with both hands resting on the wheel.
She hated funerals.
