Page 2 of For Better or Hearse

“At my wedding,” he replies, chin lifted and eyes hard, “yes.”

Ash hops to the side, moving closer to Camellia. “I’m here to show you something, Ms. Barrister.”

She opens the folder and holds it up, making sure Nathaniel can’t see its contents. Ash hands over the folder, even as Nathaniel’s glare burns a hole in her face. By the time this is over, she’ll look like one of those Victorian women who burned to death in flammable dresses.

Heat blooms in Camellia’s cheeks as she scans the incriminating photo, but she keeps her expression neutral. A minimalist tactic of the rich and famous, Ash supposes.

“Oh, come on,” Nathaniel snaps, a vein in his forehead pulsing. “This is ridiculous.”

Camellia looks at Ash, her brown eyes burning with relief.

Ash closes the folder and pulls it tightly against her chest.

“Nathaniel,” Camellia says in a silvery tone, tipping back. Away from her groom. “We should…talk.”

“Right.” His voice is strained. His ice-blue eyes darken. “Talk.”

That’s when his broad shoulders and golden head swivel Ash’s way. As he studies her, something greasy and wormy turns over in Ash’s stomach. The bite of pain on his face has her taking a step back.

Fuck. She wasn’t expecting that.

Suddenly, she begins to sweat.

From the shadows, a man in a suit emerges, earpiece in place and attention set on her.

Shit.

Ash turns. Every person in attendance is whispering now, hands to their mouths in quiet, delighted shock. There’s the flash of a photo. Camellia tugs on Nathaniel’s hand, urging him to a back room. An older man with a shock of white hair has rocketed up, phone to his ear. If his furious, blustering expression is anything to go by, it’s time for Ash to move her boots. There are nearly five hundred people here. She scans the first five pews, the immediate family there, then, almost desperately, shifts her focus to the exit.

And then she fucking runs.

Door. Exit. Now.

Before the entire Whitford family riots.

The slaps of her boots and laces echo down the aisle, metronome along with her heartbeat.

When the massive wood door slams shut behind her, she slumps back against it. Ash sucks in great gulping breaths. The air tastes like smog, the May sunlight so bright she can barely see. She is glad for the distraction, even as she tries to convince herself that what she’s just done is not the lowest level of low. The Whitfordswill thank her for it later. They will. Thank her for all the hymns, blessings, verse readings and divorces she saved them from.

The thought hums in Ash’s ears, fizzles out before she can believe it.

Fuck. What’s wrong with her?

Most times, guilt is not a factor. Today is an anomaly.

It’s the church. The eyes of God. Making her quake. Objecting to weddings in backyards, beaches, bars is so much easier. Here, where her soul is up for judgment, even if she doesn’t believe in the big guy up in the sky? It makes her insides twist and her airway tighten.

You’re messy, Ash.

Sweaty and hounded, she squeezes her eyes shut. Her blood is on fire. Fumbling around in her purse, she grabs a granola bar. Crushes it in her fist.

It’s just a job.

It’s what she wishes someone would have done for her. She’s saving them. She’ll never let another person go through it. That almost-walk.

With Jakob, she learned the rules of love.

She learned that less of herself was more.