On the day of the funeral, it rained. Celine thought he might have appreciated the weather’s sentiment. They bore the coffin and the weight of it dragged her down, threatening to bring her to her knees on the sodden earth. Hotch stumbled once. None of them cried. Celine suspected that they didn’t know how to anymore. After all, this was the second goodbye they’d had this year and, judging from the expressions on their faces when they’d found her sitting by his body, they had all lost hope of retracting one of those goodbyes.
When Hotch slipped again on the slick ground, Sergio appeared at her feet.
“This is no way to pay our respects,” he said quietly, and the rain curved around them, running in rivulets over their heads as though someone had flipped a glass bowl over the grass-lined pat
