You had expected Elliot to wait until after the burial. his victory lap for the repast, when the casseroles come out and the old women are too tired to track who is standing too close to whom. But Elliot had never been as patient as he believed he was. He walked into St. Bartholomew’s with his mistress clinging to his arm, the church doors swinging open behind them as if the day itself were there to announce his appetite.
The whole sanctuary noticed.
Not all at once. First the women near the front pews turned with that sharp, involuntary curiosity only funerals and scandals can produce. Then the ushers looked up. Then the whisper moved down the aisle, light at first, then faster, until the hush around your polished casket grew teeth. By the time Elliot and the woman on his arm reached the middle of the church, grief had already begun changing shape.
You had known he might do exactly this.
