Don't Go by Lisa Scottoline Page B

she’d bought at an auction.
    Isn’t that the cutest table ever? It’s Sheridan.
    Sheraton like the hotel? Mike had been half-joking.
    Please, you’re embarrassing yourself. It’s an antique.
    It’s not antique, it’s secondhand.
    Stop. Now you’re embarrassing me, because I married you.
    Mike tried not to think about Chloe, but it was impossible. He walked into the family room, aching inside. She’d picked out most of the furniture, and he’d been happy to let her do it, not only because she loved to go antiquing but because she could put different things together and make them look like they belonged that way.
    He crossed to a pine chest they used as a coffee table, which held last week’s newspapers. The entertainment section lay on top, because she’d always read the gallery openings, circle some, and never have time to go. To test himself, he picked up the paper, turned to the gallery openings, and sure enough, there were three ballpoint circles. He stared at the circles, imagining Chloe making them. He wondered if there had been a mug on the table beside her and whether it held coffee or vodka. He wondered why she drank, and if it was because she was unhappy that she didn’t get to go to art shows, or had quit teaching when the baby came. Or simply because she missed him, or all of the above. His chest constricted, and he dropped the newspaper.
    He left the family room for the sunroom, which Chloe had made into a studio of sorts. Her artwork was everywhere, lying propped against the walls, and there was an easel set up with a half-finished watercolor of the cat. Coffee cans of brushes sat on a shelf, and trays of paints were stowed in their own special area. Chloe had told him that she didn’t miss painting, because creating a baby was the most fulfilling thing she had ever done. He had believed her until he found the bottles. Now he didn’t know what to believe.
    He turned away, walked to the kitchen, and stopped at the threshold. The bloodstain was still there, and even if he replaced the floorboards, he would always know it had been there. He had seen her standing at that spot a thousand times, rinsing a glass, getting water for a recipe, or filling a vase of roses from their garden. Chloe had died in her own kitchen, and Mike realized all of a sudden that he could never live in this house again. He’d price the house to sell and take the first offer that came along.
    He turned his back on the kitchen, walked to the front door, and twisted the knob. He said a mental good-bye, and the front door closed behind him.

 
    Chapter Twenty
    Mike held open the door to the funeral home, letting Bob and Danielle go inside with Emily, bundled up in her puffy pink jacket. The baby had stopped crying at the sight of him, but he was keeping his distance to play it safe. He let the door close behind them and shook off the cold.
    “Welcome.” Scott Beeberman strode toward them, in his dark suit. “Hello, Dr. Scanlon, Mr. and Mrs. Ridgeway.”
    Mike gestured at Danielle. “Scott, I don’t think you met Chloe’s sister Danielle or our daughter, Emily.”
    “No, I haven’t.” Scott smiled sympathetically at Danielle. “Please accept my condolences on the loss of your sister. The baby is adorable.”
    “Thank you.” Danielle hoisted Emily higher, cradling her.
    “Please, walk with me, and you can spend some time together, privately.” Scott led them down the hall, stopped at a small sign that read VOULETTE , and opened a set of curtained French doors. “Would you like me to take your coats?”
    “We’ll keep them, thanks,” Mike answered for Bob and Danielle, whose attention had turned to the front of the room, where Chloe lay in her casket. He realized that they hadn’t seen her yet, and they looked stricken. Their foreheads buckled, their eyes filmed, and their lips parted at almost the same time, their expressions matching so perfectly it almost looked rehearsed.
    Danielle hiccupped a sob, turned to