Free Always Look Twice by Geralyn Dawson

see a woman who could be Catherine Zeta-Jones’s sister, a woman who looked vaguely familiar. Extending her hand, she said, ‘‘Hello.’’
    Lala Warren smiled pleasantly as she accepted Annabelle’s handshake. ‘‘It’s a pleasure to see you again, Ms. Monroe. I wish it were under happier circumstances.’’
    Annabelle considered trying to fake her way through the moment, but she decided to confess. ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ she said, offering an embarrassed smile. ‘‘I’m having a brain freeze. I don’t recall where we met.’’
    ‘‘The Fixers helped my first husband and me escape from Iraq. I believe you piloted the helicopter?’’
    ‘‘Oh, yes.’’ Now she remembered. The husband had been a brilliant scientist, a biologist, who didn’t want to work for Saddam Hussein. That extraction was one of the first missions the Fixers ever completed.
    ‘‘My Stefan died four . . . almost five years ago now. An automobile accident. Not long after Greg’s wife passed away.’’
    Colonel Warren patted her arm. ‘‘Lala and I have been married for two years now. I am blessed to have had two wonderful women in my life.’’
    ‘‘I’m glad for you, Colonel,’’ Annabelle told him honestly. He was a good man and she was pleased to see him happy.
    ‘‘It’s a shame it takes an unfortunate incident like this to bring us together.’’
    Annabelle gave him a sharp look. Did he know that Jeremy’s manner of death was more murderous than unfortunate? She couldn’t tell, and now was not the time to ask. ‘‘Yes, it is. If you’ll excuse me, I need to speak to Jeremy’s wife.’’
    ‘‘Of course, Annabelle. Lala and I were just leaving. We’ll visit more tomorrow at the funeral.’’
    Annabelle then threaded through the crowd, slowly making her way toward the widow. After acknowledging Mark with a brief nod, she took hold of Frances’s hands and gave them a comforting squeeze. ‘‘Hello, Frances.’’
    ‘‘Annabelle, thanks for coming.’’ Her voice was strained, her complexion pale and translucent in the room’s soft lighting. ‘‘Thanks for helping to make calls. Jeremy is surely looking down from heaven, happy to see members of the unit here.’’ Her voice cracked as she added, ‘‘You meant so much to him, you know.’’
    ‘‘He meant a lot to us, too, Frances.’’
    ‘‘Everyone loved him.’’ The widow’s eyes grew teary, but she bravely blinked the moisture away. Then as a bit of a line formed behind Annabelle, Frances Russo gestured toward the viewing room where Jeremy’s flag-draped casket was on display.
    The scent of gardenia hung heavy on the air as Annabelle moved reluctantly into the room, grateful it wasn’t an open-casket event. She didn’t do dead bodies well, especially not ones that had been drained and dressed for planting. She traced her phobia back to her great-uncle Ray’s funeral and The Accident. At seven, she’d been inquisitive, bold, and . . . foolish. It had been her bad luck that the church had a staircase to the choir loft that allowed her to lean over the casket to get a better look. Lean too far over. So far that she lost her balance and fell.
    She closed her eyes and willed away the memory.
    A hand took her elbow. ‘‘You okay?’’ Mark asked, his tone a low, respectful rumble.
    I was. Not so much now. ‘‘I’m fine.’’
    ‘‘You look flushed.’’
    ‘‘I’m fine,’’ she repeated, tugging her arm from his grip.
    ‘‘All right. Then let me introduce you to Jeremy’s mother. She is anxious to meet members of the team.’’
    Annabelle recalled that the groom’s mother—a traditional Italian Catholic—had boycotted the Las Vegas wedding in protest. Frances had told her that mother and son took a year to reconcile. Bet she regretted that lost time now.
    Mark scanned the room and frowned. ‘‘We’re still missing a lot of folks. Were you able to get hold of everyone?’’
    Annabelle didn’t want to go into the