“You’re saying you didn’t sign this version?”
“I signed a page that looked similar,” I said.
“Not that one.
And I never approved those changes.”
They looked at me for a long moment.
“Do you have the earlier copy?”
I slid another photograph from the folder.
“Yes.”
That was when the conversation stopped being about a grieving family dispute.
The district attorney’s office could not magically turn every suspicion into a criminal charge, and I knew that better than anyone.
A discrepancy was not proof.
A cruel mother-in-law was not proof of financial fraud.
A husband taking paperwork from his own house was not automatically illegal.
But altered documents mattered.
Threats mattered.
Witnesses mattered.
And a recorded assault mattered immediately.
By the time I returned to the chapel, Ryan was waiting near the side entrance.
“Where were you?”
“Cleaning myself up.”
His eyes went to my brooch.
It was back on my dress.
For half a second, I saw calculation replace grief.
“What is that thing?”
“A brooch.”
“I’ve never seen it before.”
“You’ve never noticed a lot of things.”
His jaw tightened.
Evelyn approached before he could answer.
“People are leaving,” she said.
“Try to behave normally until we’re finished.”
I looked at her.
“Normally?”
She smiled without warmth.
“You know what I mean.”
“I do now.”
That answer bothered her.
Outside, rain streaked the funeral-home windows.
The burial had been delayed until the worst of the weather passed, leaving us trapped together for another twenty minutes.
Evelyn used those minutes to make a mistake.
She cornered me near an empty hallway where she apparently believed we were alone.
“Whatever performance you’re planning,” she said, “stop it.”
I kept my hands at my sides.
“What performance?”
“You’ve been taking notes.
Asking questions.
Looking through Ryan’s things.”
That interested me.
I had never told her about the documents.
“Ryan’s things?” I asked.
She realized it too late.
“Your household papers.”
“Which papers?”
Her nostrils flared.
“Don’t play games with me.”
I said nothing.
