“No,” I said quietly.
Everyone turned toward me.
I had not spoken since Emma died. Not to reporters. Not to Evan. Not even to the priest.
I raised my eyes.
“Your father was afraid of you.”
Evan stared at me.
Mr. Halden reached into his leather folder. “There is more.”
Celeste gave a sharp, brittle laugh. “This is disgusting. A funeral is not a courtroom.”
“No,” Mr. Halden said. “But evidence travels well.”
Evan stepped forward. “Be careful.”
There it was—the real man beneath the black suit.
For six months, Emma had called me at midnight and said nothing. I would hear her breathing, then a click. For six months, bruises appeared beneath long sleeves. For six months, Evan told everyone pregnancy made her emotional, paranoid, unstable.
Then, three weeks before her death, Emma came to my kitchen barefoot in the rain.
“If something happens to me,” she whispered, “don’t cry first.”
