Free The Third Heiress by Brenda Joyce Page A

front of the family, Alex gripping William’s elbow quite firmly, as if afraid his uncle would collapse. The older man looked very worn and fatigued. The bags under his eyes seemed more extreme today than they had yesterday when Jill had arrived. She had not a doubt he had cried all night.
    Alex and William took their seats in the first pew. Thomas was literally holding Margaret upright as he seated her beside her husband, then sat down himself. He did not look up at Jill, who slid into the second pew alone, behind the family, beside strangers who turned to glance at her.
    Jill clutched her hands so hard she hurt herself. Then she caught Alex’s eyes as he glanced back at her. He didn’t smile; neither did she. He shifted, facing forward again.
    If only the service was over. Jill closed her eyes. This was the singular most horrible moment since Hal’s actual death. It felt endless. And to make matters worse, she could not forget her conversation with KC last night. And she heard someone weeping behind her, the sobs muffled but anguished.
    Jill glanced around. Directly across the aisle a petite woman was sobbing into a handkerchief, her long shoulder-length auburn hair hiding her face. An elderly man had his arm around her. He was old enough to be her father.
    Jill stared uneasily. The woman was young, and her fitted black jacket and skirt hugged her lush body like a glove. Jill knew her. But that made no sense, because Jill was quite certain that they had never met.
    Jill suddenly realized that many people in the crowd were staring at her. She tensed, looking around, but as she did so, men and women quickly looked away from her, avoiding her eyes. There was no mistaking the fact that her presence was causing an odd and strong reaction in the crowd of mourners.
    Oh, God. Too late, Jill realized that everyone must know that she had been driving, that the accident was her fault, that she had killed Hal. That was why everyone kept staring. There was no other possible reason.
    Jill had never felt worse. The guilt overwhelmed her. It seemed to choke the very breath out of her.
    It crossed her mind that she could get up from her seat and flee the church and all of these people with their accusing stares—flee and never come back.
    But she loved Hal. She had to say good-bye.
    And as the minister took the pulpit, Jill heard whispers behind her. Someone said, “Is that her? ”
    Jill froze.
    Someone else replied, “Yes, that’s her . The American girlfriend, the dancer.”
    Jill’s shoulders felt like two plywood boards. She did not move. She prayed that the service would start. But the first speaker said, too loudly, “But what about Marisa?”
    Marisa? Who was Marisa? Jill turned, staring at an elderly woman in a black Chanel suit, a beautiful black hat, and an extreme amount of very large, very real, diamond jewelry.
    The woman smiled automatically and turned her head, gazing across the aisle. Jill did not smile back. Her stomach was curdling with dread. She followed her gaze.
    And was faced with the petite redhead in the skinny black suit. The woman had stopped crying. She was staring straight ahead. She was one of the loveliest, most feminine women Jill had ever seen, with a perfect porcelain complexion and dark red hair. And it was then that Jill recognized her.
    From the photograph in Hal’s bedroom, the one of him and her on a ski slope.
    Jill’s heart fell, hard. She failed to breathe.
    The priest began to speak, his somber voice cutting through Jill’s shock. “My dear, dear friends,” he began, his voice deep and resonant, “we are gathered here today under tragic circumstances, to lay the recently departed soul of Harold William Sheldon to rest.”
    Who was Marisa? What had that woman meant? Jill fought for air. She was going to fall apart. Oh, God. This was what she had been secretly afraid of, losing it in front of everyone, all these strangers, Hal’s family—Thomas, Alex—everyone who despised her. She