Pitch Black (Romantic Thriller, Completed)

Chapter 2

Sloane had arranged cars to take everyone to the church, but I decided to drive myself instead. I couldn't take another pity-filled glance or offer of help, no matter how well-meaning everyone was. I collapsed into my Viper and sat for a few minutes, forcing myself to breathe deeply until I was calm. The others had left before me, which was just as well, because when I arrived at the church, it turned out the media circus had come to town.

We'd suspected a handful of reporters might turn up, but it must have been a slow news day because there were dozens of them milling around in the parking lot. All the local press had arrived, plus a bunch of freelance paparazzi and even a TV crew. When I pulled in, a virtual stampede started towards my car.

My husband and I had done everything we could to keep a low profile, but when someone got killed in an undeniably attention-grabbing way, it had an unfortunate tendency to entice the media scum out from the rocks they usually resided beneath. There was even a crowd of the public, peering through the drizzle from under hoods and umbrellas, ghoulishly waiting to catch a glimpse of the "Black Widow," as the press had dubbed me. Give them ten out of ten for originality, huh?

I hoped they were getting good and wet.

Barely resisting the urge to drive the Viper straight through the lot of them, I pulled to a halt next to our other cars. My friends were waiting when I got out, and they formed a barrier to shield me from the circling sharks. One held an umbrella overhead, and we moved towards the church as one mass with the guys at the front shouldering any particularly persistent reporters out of the way.

Their shouts echoed in my ears.

"Look this way," one yelled before Dan pushed him aside.

"Come on, just give us a picture," another called.

As if.

I kept my head bowed, wishing the service was over before it had even started. A couple of my team stayed behind by the doors to keep reporters out of the church. A few of them tried to talk their way in by claiming to be friends or relatives, demonstrating they had as little respect for the dead as for the living.

I sat down on the front pew next to Nate, my husband's best friend and business partner. Another of my girlfriends, Mack, took the other side. She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, not as concerned with hiding her emotions as I was. Bradley leaned forward from the row behind and squeezed my shoulder in a show of support. He'd foregone his usual riot of colour and put on a black suit, but his watch was pink, and he had a diamond in his ear. He just couldn't help himself.

I nearly lost it when the pallbearers carried the casket in. Six of my husband's oldest friends shouldered the burden, the grief on their faces mirroring my own. The casket was a plain oak affair, with brass handles and a simple arrangement of orchids on the top. He wouldn't have wanted something fancy, and it was closed of course. In fact, the whole thing was more for show than anything else, as firstly, there wasn't a whole lot left of him, and secondly, what was left had pretty much been cremated already.

The pastor stood up and droned on for a lifetime. Well, about twenty-five minutes, but it seemed much longer. His whole speech came across as insincere—hardly surprising as he'd never met my husband. The part where he said our kids would miss their father terribly was particularly touching, considering we didn't have any.

Still, I couldn't totally blame him. I'd refused to give him any personal details, so he tried his best, and I had to be grateful for that. I blocked out the rest of his words and concentrated on staying calm.

Just breathing.

In and out.

In and out.

When he'd muttered his final prayer, we all trooped outside for the burial. It was still raining, which at least gave me a good reason for hiding under an umbrella once more. The last thing I wanted was to wake up the next day to find my face plastered across the front page. I wouldn't put it beyond the reporters to photoshop a big grin on my face to show me "gleefully celebrating" the death of my husband, just to stir things up a bit.

As I watched the casket being lowered into the ground, my heart sank down with it. Never again could I love anyone the way I loved that man. When he died, my soul died too. I'd been reduced to a shell, mechanically doing the bare minimum to work and stay breathing but not caring whether I ultimately lived or died.

I was alive but no longer living.

The pastor sprinkled a handful of dirt on top of the casket then Dan nudged my arm and gestured towards the black rose I clutched in a death grip. A thorn dug into my thumb, and I relished the pain, relished the trickle of crimson blood because it broke through the numbness. But at Dan's urging, I forced my fingers to loosen and threw the single flower into the grave.

That was it. Over.

My soulmate was gone.