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family members. “A sister, Sayre Hoyle of San Francisco,” the minister intoned.
    She wanted to stand up and shout that Hoyle was no longer her name. After her second divorce, she had begun using her middle name, which had been her mother’s maiden name. She’d had her name legally changed to Lynch. That was the name on her college degree, her business stationery, her California driver’s license, and her passport.
    She wasn’t a Hoyle any longer, but she had no doubt that whoever had supplied the minister with the information had intentionally given him the incorrect name.
    The homily was straight out of a clerical textbook, delivered by a shiny-faced minister who looked too young to vote. His remarks were directed toward mankind in general. There was very little mention of Danny as an individual, nothing poignant or personal, which seemed particularly sad since his own sister had refused his telephone calls.
    As the service concluded with the singing of “Amazing Grace,” there were sniffles among the congregation. The pallbearers were Chris, a fair-haired man she didn’t know, and four others whom she recognized as executives of Hoyle Enterprises. They carried the casket up the center aisle of the church.
    It was slow going, giving her time to study her brother Chris. He was as trim and handsome as ever, with the suavity of a 1930s matinee idol. The only thing missing was a thin mustache. His hair was still as black as a raven’s wing, but he was wearing it shorter than he used to. It was spiked up in front with gel, a rather hip look for a man in his late thirties, but nonetheless the style suited Chris. His eyes were disconcerting because the pupils were indistinguishable from the dark irises.
    Huff followed the casket. Even on this occasion he carried himself with an air of superiority. His shoulders were back, his head high. Each footstep was firmly planted, as though he were a conqueror with the sovereign right to claim the ground beneath him.
    His lips were set in the hard, thin, resolute line that she remembered well. His eyes glittered like the black bead eyes of a stuffed toy. They were dry and clear; he hadn’t cried for Danny. Since she’d last seen him, his hair had turned from salt-and-pepper to solid white, but he still wore it in a flattop of military preciseness. He had put on a few pounds around his midsection but appeared as robust as she remembered.
    Fortunately neither Chris nor Huff saw her.
    To avoid the crowd and risk of being recognized, she slipped out a side door. Her car was last in the procession to the cemetery. She parked quite a distance from the tent that had been set up over the newly dug grave.
    In somber groups and singly, people made their way up the slight rise for the graveside service. For the most part, they were dressed in their Sunday best, although armholes had sweat rings and hatbands were stained with perspiration. They walked in shoes that were too tight from infrequent wear.
    Sayre recognized and remembered many of these people by name. They were townsfolk who had lived in Destiny all their lives. Some owned small businesses, but most worked for the Hoyles in one capacity or another.
    She spotted several faculty members from the public school system. Her mother’s fondest desire had been to send her children to the most exclusive private schools in the South, but Huff had been adamant. He wanted them to grow up tough and under his tutelage. Whenever the argument recurred, he would say, “A sissy prep school isn’t the place to learn about life and how to muscle your way through it.” As in all their arguments, her mother had conceded with a relinquishing sigh.
    Sayre remained in her car with the motor idling. The service was mercifully brief. As soon as it concluded, the crowd returned to their cars, making an effort to conceal their haste.
    Huff and Chris were the last to leave the tent after shaking hands with the minister. Sayre watched them make their way