03

I stood in front of the floor length mirror propped up against the wall in my bedroom and tugged awkwardly at the black cotton dress I was wearing. Sure, the dress was nice enough, my long dark hair wasn't frizzy or anything, and I looked presentable enough, I supposed, but I was still nervous as hell.

I only had a few more minutes before the taxi I called would arrive downstairs and it felt like I was going to puke. And, I mean, a lot could happen in a few minutes, right?

I sighed heavily and grabbed my coat off my desk chair, slipping into it. After making sure that my wallet and phone were tucked carefully away in my coat pocket, I left my room, slamming the door shut behind me.

Walking down the hallway towards the living room, I heard the sounds of somebody talking in a reassuring, business sort of way that could only belong to my father.

Kenneth Jamison was leaning against the wall in the sitting room, his dress coat tossed on the leather couch, his iPhone 4S in his grasp as he chatted during what was no doubt a business call.

Dad glanced up as I walked through the living room to the kitchen and surprised me beyond belief by saying, "Hey, Wes, I'll have to give you a call later. Hadley's getting ready to leave."

I grabbed a water bottle from the fridge and leaned up against the counter while Dad walked into the kitchen, tucking his phone back into his pocket.

"What are you doing home, Dad?" I asked him as I took a sip of my water.

That was normally how conversations between my parents and I started, which was really rather sad.

"We just closed the Blanchard-Emilie case today, so I decided to take off early," Dad answered as he crossed the decked out chrome kitchen to the fridge.

"Right," I said awkwardly. "Congratulations."

Dad swung the fridge door shut, a couple of grapes in hand, a rather peculiar look on his face.

Dad and I looked a lot alike. We were both pale and had sharp, angular facial features, with dark hair and lean figures. The only thing I'd gotten from Mom, really, were my eyes, which were just plain old brown. Dad's eyes, though, were bright, crystal clear blue.

"Are you sure you want to go tonight?" he finally asked, his dark eyebrows pulled together in a concerned expression.

"Yes," I said quickly.

I hadn't even needed to think about it before blurting out my reply. There was no doubt that I was completely unsure of everything that had been going on lately, but I was sure that I was going to go to Archer Morales' funeral.

There was this small, nagging thought in the back of my head that kept me wondering how many students from school were going to show up tonight, too. I really didn't want to think about that.

"Do you want me to come with you?" Dad continued in a slightly awkward voice that wasn't his own.

For some odd reason to me, it seemed like actually acting like a parent or giving out parently orders seemed to be taking its toll on Dad.

"No, Dad, really," I said quickly.. "It's okay. I'm fine with going by myself."

"Is Taelor going with you?"

In all honesty, I didn't know the answer to that question.

"Probably not," I said. "Funerals aren't really her thing."

Too right that one was. Taelor put on a remorseful face at school, but I wasn't so sure she'd end up following through and going to the service at St. Patrick's.

"Well, I don't want you staying out too late," Dad said, loosening the tie around his neck.

I bit back a heavy, teenagerish sigh. "Don't worry, Dad. I know the rules about being out in the city at night."

One could never be too careful in New York City, I supposed.

Dad gave a sheepish smile, popping another grape into his mouth. "For a teenager, you're surprisingly non-whiney. I suppose I should consider myself lucky."

I rolled my eyes and gave Dad a look, which made him laugh. "Thanks, Dad."

We chatted a bit more about how our days had gone, which was nice, but barely a few minutes later, the intercom by the front door started beeping loudly.

"Well, that's me," I said, gesturing a thumb towards the door. "I'll see you later, Dad."

Dad caught his arms around me in a quick hug and gave me a nudge towards the door. "Bye, Hadley. Stay safe."

I muttered something reassuring - or at least I hoped I was - and made my way towards the door.

"Hello?" I said quickly, pressing the button on the intercom.

"Miss Jamison, your ride is here," the quavering voice of Hanson, the elderly night man down stairs, rang out over the line.

"Thanks, Mr. Hanson," I chirped before hanging up.

"Bye, Dad," I called out again before whipping open the front door and slamming it shut behind me.

The marble tiled hallway outside was empty, thankfully, and I took off for the elevator, walking quickly. The ride down to the lobby was quick enough and only a minute later I was whisking through the lobby and out the front doors into the frigid autumn night. It was unsually cold for November.

The doorman helped me into the relatively nice taxi idling out on the cramped street. I breathed an unintentional sigh of relief as soon as the cab door swung shut. It was finally like things were becoming reality for me or something like that.

"Where to, miss?" the guy in the front asked in a gruff Brooklyn accent.

"St. Patrick's Cathedral," I said as calmly as I could.

My palms were starting to get sticky with sweat and my voice was a little shaky for some odd reason. Hopefully I wouldn't throw up or anything as soon as I got there.

The ride to the cathedral was quiet. I spent most of my time peering out the slightly grimy cab window at the glistening lights of the city, trying to distract myself from what I was about to do. In no time at all the guy was pulling up to the curb outside the cathedral and putting the car in park.

I quickly tossed the guy a twenty without asking how much my fare was and clambered out of the car, walking fast-paced to the front steps of the cathedral. A slight wind was whipping around my ankles and I was starting to regret not wearing a slightly longer dress.

The narthex of the church was decorated in a traditional gothic style and smelt like different insences they used during mass. I checked the time on my phone just to make sure that I wasn't late or anything.

6:52.

Taking a deep, reassuring breath, I dipped my fingers into the bowl of holy water on my left, crossed myself, and opened the heavy wooden door leading into the church.

St. Patrick's cathedral was beautiful and ornately decorated, that was true, but what was more shocking than the place itself was the fact that only the first three pews of the church were occupied. Other than those few clusters of people, the large cathedral was just about empty.

I started gnawing on my lip, my legs starting to tremble from nerves. I'd been expecting it, but that didn't make it all the less painful to see. I had to take deep breaths as I started to walk down the main aisle, tears starting to burn my eyes.

There was an open spot at the end of the first pew in the church, so I awkwardly sat down without looking over at who was next to me. From what I could tell, several of the teachers whose classes I'd been in since freshman year were sitting around me, but nobody from school I recognized.

How was I supposed to be feeling about this?

"Were you one of Archer's classmates?"

I jerked a little in surprise and glanced over at the woman who'd just spoken. She looked vaguely familiar even though I was positive I'd never seen her before. She was really quite pretty with long, thick black hair that was slightly tinged with gray at her temples. Her face was drawn and pale, a slightly pinched look in her hazel eyes. I sucked in a breath when I realized who this must be.

This woman must be Archer's mother.

"Y-Y-Yeah," I stammered out. "We had English together our freshman year."

The woman gave a slight smile, her lips trembling. "I'm Regina. Archer's mother."

"Hadley Jamison," I replied as easily as I could.

"Jamison?" Regina Morales repeated sharply. "As in Kenneth Jamison's daughter?"

I was shocked that she actually recognized me, even if it was by my father.

I nodded awkwardly. "Yes, I am."

Regina let out a shaky laugh, glancing forward. "I didn't know there'd be a celebrity here."

"Oh, I'm no celebrity," I babbled. "Just...just a friend."

A friend, I'd said. I was really starting to believe that I'd actually been a friend to Archer Morales.

This being my first funeral, I wasn't so sure what to expect, but the service was quiet and well put together. Mr. Gage, the geometry teacher, spoke a few words about Archer and how he'd been a model student that we all could have learned things from.