The clock on the wall ticked steadily. The chatter from the other mourners had diminished as the afternoon wore on, but there were still a great many people in the living room and dining room. In the kitchen, the detritus from the various foods that had been provided had built up; casserole dishes and trays and glasses covered the table and most of the counter space. "I haven't been avoiding you," he replied, his voice flat. Molly flinched. A twinge of sadness touched her heart. She glanced around to be sure no one was nearby, then she moved in closer to him, taking one of his hands in hers. "Jack, talk to me," she said, heart aching. She searched his warm brown eyes, saw how tired he was. But there was more than pain and exhaustion there. Molly thought she saw confusion as well. "I don't know what to say," he confessed, an ache in his voice. A bone-deep melancholy swept over Molly, a sadness completely unlike the grief she felt because of what had happened to Artie and Kate.
