Chapter 1 - The Laughter at the Altar
The gothic arches of St. Jude’s Cathedral echoed with the low, mournful hum of an organ, yet the air felt suffocatingly heavy. At the front of the sanctuary rested an open mahogany casket. Inside lay my twenty-eight-year-old daughter, Emily, her skin pale, her hands folded peacefully across her chest. She was seven months pregnant when her life was stolen from her.
Grant, her husband of three years, had played the part of the grieving widower to absolute perfection. For three days, he had wept into handkerchiefs in front of reporters, accepted tearful embraces from business associates, and spoken eloquently to local news stations about the sudden, violent storm that had supposedly caused Emily’s car to skid off the coastal highway. He had painted a picture of a tragic, unavoidable accident.
Everyone believed him. Why wouldn't they? Grant was a rising star in the architectural world, charming, handsome, and seemingly devastated.
Until the heavy oak doors at the back of the cathedral swung open.
Instead of walking in with a bowed head and slow, measured steps, Grant strode down the center aisle laughing. His arm was casually linked with Sloane Vance, his longtime mistress and junior designer at the firm. Sloane wasn't wearing mourning black; she wore a vibrant crimson dress that practically screamed celebration, and glittering around her left wrist was a distinct piece of jewelry—Emily’s missing heirloom diamond bracelet, a birthday gift from her late grandfather that had vanished from our home the night of the crash.
A collective murmur rippled through the seated mourners. Several family friends turned away in sheer disgust. But Grant didn't care. He walked right up to the front row, his smirk barely concealed behind a practiced, somber facade.
As he paused near the casket, pretending to gaze down at his dead wife and unborn child, a soft, chilling sound brushed against my ear.
I whipped my head toward the mahogany box.
May you like
Emily’s eyelids fluttered. Slowly, impossibly, her head turned a fraction of an inch toward me. Her lips parted, and a raspy, phantom whisper drifted through the cold sanctuary air, clear as glass:
“Looks like I win, Mom.”
