She knew his face and could not immediately place it, and then she did: the orderly. The one from the hospital. Standing quietly against the back wall with his hands folded, watching the service with an expression she could not read.

Something moved through her — a small, cold current of unease she had no name for.

“Gareth,” she murmured, turning her head. “That man in the back. Why is a hospital orderly at my husband’s funeral?”

Gareth followed her glance and shrugged. “Probably wants a handout. Grieving widow, rich estate — you’d be surprised what crawls out of the woodwork looking for a piece.

Ignore him.” He put a warm hand at the small of her back. “It’s over. You did it. Don’t go inventing things to worry about now.”

She let herself be steered toward the doors. But she looked back once, and the orderly was still there, still watching, and the cold current moved through her again.