5
Peter
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…”
The priest’s droning voice reaches my ears, and I tune him out as I scan the crowd of mourners. There are over two hundred people here, all wearing dark clothes and somber expressions. Under the sea of black umbrellas, many eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, and some women are audibly crying.
George Cobakis was popular during his lifetime.
The thought should anger me, but it doesn’t. I don’t feel anything when I think of him, not even the satisfaction that he’s dead. The rage that’s consumed me for years has quieted for the moment, leaving me strangely empty.
I stand at the back of the crowd, my black coat and umbrella like those of the other mourners. A light brown wig and a thin mustache disguise my appearance, as do my slouched posture and the
